Collaborative Storytelling #2

To everyone who knew her, Mary Campbell was a perfectly normal person. She had an office job in accounting, went to the gym three times a week, and was usually in bed by 8:30 PM most nights. Mary preferred it that way. After all, no one would ever believe the truth: that Mary was living two vastly different lives.

Some days, she woke up in 2025 and went to her normal job as Mary Campbell, but other days, she woke up in 1692 as Morrigan Ashmore. Morrigan lived in a secluded village on the outskirts of Salem, Massachusetts. She and her fellow witches had to stay hidden. Their kind were being hunted and burned at the stake, after all.

Most days, she was Mary, but today? Today, she was Morrigan.

Dawn’s first light was climbing over the horizon. Crows circled the crooked village rooftops overhead. Morrigan’s cottage sat at the edge of the village, where the forest pressed in and the mist of the marshes clung to the ground. The village was made up of a scattering of weather beaten homes with thatched roofs blackened by years of smoke. At its centre sat a leaning church with a cracked iron bell at the top of the tower. Narrow dirt paths twisted their way between the homes like a headless serpent. Just beyond the village sat fields of withered stalks, dead and skeletal after the late harvest. The village was a place where the wind swept through, but whispers travelled faster. Suspicion hung in the air, and every shadow held an omen. The village was where Morrigan lived with those she called sisters. Obscurity was its charm, but the whispers brought news that the quiet obscurity was at risk.

As Morrigan enjoyed the dawn’s light, her solitude shattered. Over the crest of the village road, they came. Thomas Putnam led them. His daughter Ann was by his side, framed by the light of dawn. Behind them, a restless crowd. Voices carried with the breeze. Not the usual whispers. A mixture of vitriolic scripture and accusations filled the air. Thomas’s face, a picture of righteous fury. Ann’s eyes wide with hatred and certainty, her words, accusations of curses delivered in nightmares. The mob marched forward, their shouts swelling into a collective cry. Morrigan stood frozen. Salem’s hunger for witches had reached her door at last.

She stepped back inside, chanting a protective spell, then ducked under her bed and pulled a knife from her pocket. The banging on her door spurred her on as she dug into the floorboards, dislodging three of them. Just as she slipped the last one into place, they burst in. She began the long dark crawl through the dirty tunnel, praying that her spell would hold, at least till she was free of them. It occurred to her to kick at the ceiling to bring the tunnel down behind her; that would buy her more time.

Morrigan kicked; once, twice, and then the ceiling came crumbling down in a rain of dust and dirt that burned her throat and stung her eyes. She bottled the cough in her chest and tried to listen. They were above her, their voices dim and muffled, but there nonetheless. She could imagine Thomas barking orders, one hand on the pistol he always carried with him, while his daughter searched with the other men, her eyes hard with hatred.

She needed to move.

She hauled herself through dirt that clumped in her hair and stuck to her cheeks. An old claustrophobia - a fear that she retained from her other life, her life as Mary - bloomed in her chest. What if the tunnel collapses? She shoved the fear down, and kept clawing through the dark.

The tunnel spat her out at the edge of the woods behind her cottage. She quietly dragged herself up into the cold morning air, but there was no time to rest. She brushed dirt from her palms and looked toward her cottage one last time. That’s when she saw him. One of Putnam’s men peering through a warped glass window toward the back. His eyes flicked and caught hers.

Morrigan froze. His mouth opened, already drawing in breath to shout. She bolted. Branches whipped her face as she tore into the trees, dress snagging, heart thundering. Somewhere behind her, the man’s voice towered over the rest: “WITCH!”

Her feet pounded over roots and rocks. The air carried the sound of a frantic hunt- cracking twigs, maniacal shouting and mayhem. But she didn’t dare look back now. Her only thought was forward as fast as she could.

And then, betrayal.

Her boot caught on a root hidden beneath the mist. She pitched forward, arms flailing, and the world seemed to tilt with her. Moss and dirt gave way to concrete. Early morning mist bled into headlights. Morrigan hit the ground… But then she wasn’t Morrigan anymore.

Mary Campbell blinked against the autumn sunlight of 2025, stumbling as her heel slid off the too-tall curb of State Street. Horns blared.

Mary held up her hands and offered the offended drivers a sheepish smile. She crossed the street quickly, arriving at the other side and leaning up against a tall stone building. Sucking in a few deep breaths, she tried to reorient herself to her current surroundings. No one was chasing her. She was safe.

At the office that day, Mary kept having flashbacks of the approaching witch-hunters, her escape through the tunnel, and her flight through the dark forest. She shook her head to send them scattering, trying to concentrate on the numbers in the spreadsheet in front of her. Her life as Morrigan, and the danger she had been in, felt like a bad dream she couldn’t fully wake up from.

She rubbed her eyes and stood up. Maybe coffee would help.

Ashley Plover was rinsing out a mug in the sink when Mary walked into the break room. Ashley looked up from the stream of water and shot Mary a smile that felt out of place.

Mary felt a chill run down her vertebrae. The other woman’s dark eyes felt hauntingly, terrifyingly familiar.

“Morning,” Ashley said, setting the mug down on the drying rack beside the sink.

“Good morning,” Mary replied, grabbing a clean mug from the nearby cabinet.

Mary picked up the glass pot of coffee and started pouring herself a cup. Steam exploded from the piping hot liquid as it filled the glass.

“Oh, be careful, someone messed with the temperature settings on the coffee. Don’t want you to get burned,” Ashley said.

Burned.

A sharp streak of pain shot through Mary’s head. She involuntarily let go of both the mug and the coffee pot. The two tumbled toward the ground in slow motion.

Mary blinked, and suddenly she was Morrigan again. She was above the ground. Ahead of her, she saw trees in every direction, interlaced with a morning fog.

“Burn her! BURN THE WITCH!” a voice shrieked.

Morrigan looked down, and in that moment, she felt the coarse texture of rope around her wrists. She couldn’t move her feet, either. She looked down in horror, seeing sticks and kindling piled below her.

“Do it, NOW!” the same voice shouted.

Morrigan looked toward the sound and saw Ann’s hatred-filled eyes staring back at her.

Or was it Ashley?

Another streak of pain shot through Morrigan’s head as she smelled smoke rising from beneath her feet.

Glass and porcelain exploded as the pot and mug shattered on the breakroom floor. Boiling coffee seeped through Mary’s shoes, burning her feet. Mary grabbed the dish cloth from the sink and dropped to her knees. Ashley brought her hand to her face to stifle a giggle. Mary met her eyes. Behind the derived humour was something darker. As Mary mopped at the coffee avoiding the shards glass and porcelain, Ashley’s eyes held enjoyment. Satisfaction seeing Mary on her knees and in pain.

Sandra, the office team leader, stepped into the breakroom. “Is everything alright in here?” Her eyes shifted from Mary on the floor, to the snickering Ashley. “Don’t you have work to do?” Ashley dropped her head and hurried out of the breakroom. Sandra grabbed the dust pan from the cabinet and dropped to her knees beside Mary.

“I’m so sorry, Sandra. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” Mary felt Sandra’s fingers on her wrist. She met Sandra’s gaze. Her emerald eyes were filled with compassion. A streak of pain ripped through Mary’s mind.

Twisting flames gathered momentum beneath Morrigan’s feet. She struggled at the ropes holding her wrists. A shape emerged through the fog of the treeline, wearing a black robe. Beneath the hood of the robe, a pair of emerald green eyes. The woman leaned forward, and blew breath in Morrigan’s direction. The flames beneath Morrigan’s feet flattened and stretched outward in serpentine shapes that slithered toward the gathered crowd.

“She conjures!” Ann shouted, pointing at Morrigan. “Even on the fire with her soul in peril, she casts a spell!”

But the people were dispersing in terror as the witch-fire found them.

Sarah Woodley flicked her fingers at Morrigan, then pulled her hands apart with a twist. The ropes snapped, and Morrigan fell forwards into Sarah's arms. “Come,” said Sarah, “we need to get out of here.”

A shot rang out.

Morrigan felt the bullet’s breath against her cheek… then, nothing.

She had shut her eyes, knowing Thomas’ pistol would be what killed her. But, when her eyes fluttered open, she was no longer in the town center, in the smog and heat of the flames, amidst the shrieks of the fleeing townspeople. Her cheek stung. Her throat burned with the grit of trapped smoke. She was still wrapped in Sarah’s arms, and she scrambled away, her face hot.

Fog curled past her. There was a rustle in her ears, like whispering leaves. They were in the forest that surrounded the town, shrouded in the shadows of evening.

Sarah lowered her hood, the shadows spilling away from her face. Her emerald eyes glimmered faintly in the moonlight. “Keep calm,” she said, the words soft and steady but urgent. “We don’t have much time before the spell wears off. Once it does, they’ll hunt again.”

Morrigan touched her cheek where the bullet had grazed her, her fingertips coming away sticky with blood and ash. She looked down at her hand, then back at Sarah, struggling to anchor herself in the moment.

“Are you well enough to move?” Sarah asked. Her voice stern, but her eyes softened with concern.

Morrigan wanted to answer but a new weight pressed against her skull. The world shuddered at the edges. She fought to stay rooted, clinging with every ounce of her soul. But the pull was too strong.

Her knees buckled. The forest vanished.

Sandra’s grip steadied her, firm around Mary’s arm, guiding her quickly down the carpeted hall. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright and artificial after the smoke and shadows. Mary blinked hard, trying to adjust.

“C’mon,” Sandra whispered, ducking them into a supply closet next to the conference room. Sandra shut the door softly, then turned to face her, worry etched across her face.

“Listen, Mr. Patten is on his way,” Sandra said, her voice tight with urgency. “We need to get back to work and finish the joint action proposal. Like, right now. Can you do that?”

Mary opened her mouth, but no words came. The cramped space pressed in on her, racing her pulse and stealing her breath.

Then—

A low, sinister voice came from down the hall. “Sandra? Sandra, is that you? Is Mary with you?”

Sandra froze. She grabbed the door knob with both hands. Her breath quickened.

“Mary?!” she hissed, snapping her head back toward her. In the dim light of the closet, Sandra’s face seemed to blur, her concern warping into something familiar. “Mary! Focus on it!”

The walls pressed in. Sandra’s voice fractured, fading like an echo. Mary’s vision tilted, black spots creeping into the edges.

And she slipped.

Morrigan felt but could not see her feet moving beneath her, carrying her forward in darkness. Slowly, a picture of the world around her revealed itself, like the moon gaining clarity as the clouds obscuring it dissolve. She was walking through a clearing in the forest, her sister witches trudging grimly beside her on either side. They carried a few precious belongings: grimoires, cauldrons, athames, frightened cats mewling for their comfortable homes.

Recognition deepened in her; they were moving. The Putnams and the other witch-hunters may have driven them away from their village, but they hadn’t taken their lives. The witches would find a new home, somewhere more isolated, somewhere they weren’t known. Their sisterhood and their magic would live on.

Morrigan smiled. Then a root caught her foot and pulled her to the ground.

The door of the supply closet fell open, and Mary fell with it, tumbling gracelessly onto the hard tile floor. Her face landed inches from a pair of shiny, polished oxfords. She looked up and saw the furious face of Trevor Patten towering over her.

Sandra pulled Mary to her feet. The two women stood facing Mr. Patten as Ashley snickered like a schoolgirl behind him.

Mary cleared her throat, ignoring the pounding fear in her chest. She grasped Sandra’s hand tightly and spoke.

“Mr. Patten, we quit.”

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