Free The Witch’s Grave by Shirley Damsgaard

Focus on the trees behind him.
    The image shifted as if the camera in my head panned the woods. Crows took flight, and for an instant the sun hit the cold glint of metal glimmering just out of reach of the shadows. My body jumped at the crack of gunfire and the picture disappeared.
    Opening my eyes, my arms tingled as if hit by a mild shock as the power seeped downward and back into the earth, leaving me. I shook out my hands and inhaled a cleansing breath.
    So now I had an idea where the shooter stood. But no face, no sense of his emotions, had filtered through. And I had no motive.
    Still shaken by the experience, and off balance, I took a step forward, and the back of my neck quivered. I stopped and whirled around with a feeling someone stood behind me.
    Nothing. Only a swarm of gnats drifting in and out of the shade. Must be a little residual energy still playing with my senses, I thought. I took an unsteady gasp and batted at my hair before continuing down the path. Rounding the corner,I saw a tall old-fashioned steeple rising above the trees. A little farther down the trail, I came out of the grove of trees into a tiny clearing and stood in front of the old church.
    Gaping holes marred the faded red-tiled roof and new boards covered the plain square windows. The building had a sad, shuttered look. Its clapboards were aged gray, and in places appeared charred. A stillness wrapped around the church like mourning clothes.
    Something bad happened here.
    It flashed in my head, and without warning, flames flickered in my mind. And with them came a sense of anger, hate, intolerance. I felt my face grow warm as if I stood too close to a bonfire. Stepping back, the smell of smoke seemed to surround me. I heard the cries of women and the wail of children.
    I scrunched my eyes, and rubbing my forehead, tried to wipe away the scene. The acrid odor faded while the sounds died away. Opening my eyes, all was as it had been.
    Whatever had happened in this quiet glen happened long ago, but the pain of the event still lingered, like a memory too terrible to forget. A heaviness settled in the pit of my stomach, and my throat tightened with sympathy for those who had suffered.
    No, I couldn’t let the past deter me from why I was here.
    Stretching my arms wide, I tried to find my center, my core, and allow peace to fill me. And as I did, I raised the shield around my senses that I’d so foolishly forgotten to reinforce after my attempt to “see” Stephen’s assailant. The heavy feeling eased and my throat loosened.
    Calmer, I approached the new steps leading to the wide double doors as a squirrel chattered at me from a branch hanging low over the roof. One door was opened a crack, and I cautiously pressed it wider.
    “Hello? Anyone here?” My voice echoed in the empty sanctuary.
    I crossed the threshold and peered in. Fading sunlightshone down from the holes in the roof, dimly lighting the church. Long benches covered with ghostly white tarps sat along the wall, out of the light. A pile of discarded water bottles and food wrappers sat on top of a moth-eaten blanket to my left. Another white tarp draped over what I presumed was the altar marked the back of the church. On either side, swags of thick, dusty cobwebs hung from the corners. From behind the altar I heard the sound of rustling in the dried leaves littering the floor.
    Mice, or at least I hoped it was mice and not something bigger. Like a rat. I shivered.
    I took a step forward, and at the same time a loud crunch reverberated through the room. Startled, I pulled back and looked down. What seemed like hundreds of acorns lay scattered amid the leaves. I nudged away the debris with the toe of my loafer. Starting forward again, a sudden hand on my shoulder brought me up short.
    With a shriek, I spun around to see the owner of the winery, Ron Mark, standing behind me.
    “My God, you scared me,” I exclaimed.
    “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he replied. “Are you