The Curse of Sabrina

The spine chilling winds and the dreadful aura is how you would describe being around this manner and Salem, struggling to hold itself together in one piece. This petite structure may have seen more than its share of gloom and misery. But it's not your typical edge of town manner. It stands right in the middle of the hustle bustle on the way for most businesses, and reminds every soul that passes by it of Sabrina's wrath. Call it an urban legend, a myth or simply a creation of a troubled mind. Sabrina has existed in every shape and size in the minds of those who believe in her. People don’t hesitate to give her a typical description of a witch. Her straw like figure with thin bloodless lips, crazy knotted hair, arachnid eyes smoldering with vengeance, and nails as big as the fingers, are all images that come to mind when you think of her and not because she's a usual sight in town. But because that's how Peter Welch likes to describe witches in his collection of short horror stories.

As a celebrated writer in town, Peter Welch is someone people take seriously. He has a way with words unlike anyone else. His work of fiction is some of the most read and sold in town. But that's not all. You could have conversed with the man for just a few minutes, and he'll have you convinced that the world is flat. That's how powerful his influence is.

While he's never exclusively written about a character named Sabrina, people have somehow managed to link a decade's old urban legend with a description from one of his books. The idea of Sabrina did not emerge in this ewry you run downtown overnight, years and years of passing down information had been used to scare people away from the Dungeon of Doom, or the Blenheim Manor, where Peter Welch, the same writer has lived in for years.

Some often claimed that his written work is simply a reflection of his own life in that creepy mansion. Because what else would have inspired him to be that passionate about witches and demons? Stories about hearing noises at night and dead animals in the backyard had circulated in town for years. It was clear you weren't supposed to go inside it or God forbid even near it. Because if you did, Sabrina would unleash her curse on you. Some would spread stories about seeing a woman in the window staring down into the souls of those who passed by, while others would claim that no trees had bloomed in its surroundings.

For years, some believed these folktales, while others call them a hoax. To many people, it seemed too typical of a story to buy.

“So what if it was not the best build house in town. So what if it appears shitty? It's unexpected of a place that hasn't been maintained for so many years. Forget about it. These folks are doing it to keep estate agents away from the property. Have you seen how huge it is? Think about it. Why else would there be so many speculations and rumors in the air if it wasn't to keep eyes and hands off it?” Said one local to another.

Growing up in a troubled family, Peter learned to put his perplexity into words at a very young age. However, his work was not just limited to the world of demons and witches. Children in town were also quite familiar with this rather light hearted Bedtime Stories collections. Ever since he was a child, he didn't quite seem to fit in. His introverted nature and social awkwardness always kept him from making friends or let alone maintaining friendships he already had. On the other hand, you could also witness a general sense of hesitation when it came to conversing with him. After all, he lived in the Blenheim Manor, and may as well have been under the influence whatever lived in there.

He would see this man in his long grey coat and cream-colored scarf, sipping on his coffee and walking around town like he knows it better than everyone else. Some called him strange, while others learned to live with the idea of someone who wasn't quite interested in conversing with them. Then there were those who purposely ignored his existence, because they'd rather stay away from the man who lived in the same house as, Sabrina the witch. Nevertheless, they all seemed to enjoy his work, and would often run into him and ask why a story ended the way it did. More often than not, all they would get in return was ‘that's how it had to end’.

One fine morning, Peter seemed unusually distanced. No one had seen him heading towards the newspaper stand, grabbing his coffee, or walking on the pavement in his long grey coat. Given how small the population is, it's not hard to notice some absence. But there he was, sitting on the bench that faced the lake in the only Park in town. You can tell from the redness in his eyes that he hadn't slept the whole night. It was hard to tell what was going on in his mind as Peter Welch wasn't as good with words in reality as he was in his book. He wouldn't really say anything other than what needed to be said. But the pen and notebook in his hands made it apparent that he was working on yet another story.

You know how you see writers wandering around, looking for the right space, time and atmosphere to be able to write well? That’s what it seemed like on the outside. However, who could stop the locals from raising speculations in the air?

“See, I told you, he don't seem okay. Maybe the witch freaked him out at night,” chuckled a local while speaking to another in the same park.

“Does it bother you though? The way the peasant died. And the way Peter Welch's very own house help’s body was found in the woods?” continued the second man.

“Killings happen everywhere, don't they? It's a small town, and people get alarm by everything,” said the first one.

What they both didn't realize while engaging in this conversation was how Peter Welch wasn't sitting so far. He had his eyes and ears stuck onto them, trying to make sense of every word that came out of their mouths, but he was too exhausted to care about it since he was busy completing the first part of his book. But you could tell that Peter knew something those men didn't. His eyes were almost screaming to be seen and heard but there was only so much he could talk about.

He stopped and headed home shortly, where he continued writing the first part of his book. This time, the story wasn't about a demon he had made up in his head. It was about the town's very own Sabrina the witch. Whether it was an attempt to get more publicity or simply pen down the reality, Peter Welch’s body language seemed different this time. It was as if he felt like he was being watched. But by who? Who knows?

Several weird things had occurred the previous night. Like banging noises on the entrance door, and strangers ringing the bell. But by now, he knew the children in town all too well to care. However, something did bother him about one of those instances as he placed his pen on the paper and headed towards the door to see who there was, no sign of children running away. It was as if something was trying hard to distract him. The moment he came back to finish the draft, the ink had somehow spread all over. It was quite an unusual sight because he has rarely had a pen that spilled.

But Peter was a man of his word. If he'd made up his mind to complete the book, no power could stop him. At least that's what he thought. He rewrote the damaged part again. Got done with the first part of the book and laid down for a bit waiting for his publisher’s call. As the phone rang, he ran down the stairs in a rush and picked it up.

“Peter, are you sure about this?” questioned the publisher from the other line.

“ Yeah, I think it's time George. But I haven't really started writing the last…” and the line disconnected abruptly.

“Peter, are you there? Peter? Hello?” George confirmed again before putting the phone down.

Something didn't quite feel right about this. Since Peter was only a few blocks away. George planned on continuing the conversation in person and headed over to the Blenheim Manor.

After knocking on the door for several minutes, George turned the knob found it unlocked and headed inside. However, the site he was welcomed by was going to stay with him for years. The floor covered in blood and the decapitated head at the edge of the table gave it away. Peter had been brutally killed. Here's the dilemma, no one knew what would follow.

Why did he choose to write a book on Sabrina? Did he know the implications already? Did he know Sabrina well enough? What secret does the unfinished book hold? Unfortunately, the answers to the questions were also buried with Peter’s body.