Free Wolfwraith by John Bushore

there’s a reason for the killings. The spirits of the people who used to live here had killed them, he said, to tell us the park people don’t belong here—hand me a candy bar from the glove box, would you—and he apparently even believes we’re going to put in ‘mansions,’ as he called them and golf courses. What do you make of that?”
    Jonesy handed over a candy bar. “He’s a nut job. A nature freak. He might not dance with wolves, but he probably gathers acorns with the squirrels.”
    “He says he’s sure this latest girl is dead.”
    “I told you. He’s a fruitcake. He hears the voices of his ancestors, telling him what to do.”
    “Do you know anything about the gravestone a little ways off from the cemetery? Mamie Bunch is the name on it—looks old.” Shadow peeled the wrapper from his candy without releasing the wheel.
    Jonesy gave him an odd look. “Frank been telling you ghost stories?”
    “He was putting shells on that grave.”
    “Hmmm. I haven’t thought of that story in quite a while.”
    “You know about her?” Shadow asked around a mouthful of candy.
    “Yeah, I grew up in the area. Not here on the cape—over in Creeds, the other side of the bay, below Pungo. That’s why I volunteer in the park; it’s nice to think I’m preserving some of the wilderness I grew up in. You’ve heard of the Witch of Pungo?”
    “Mamie Bunch was the Witch of Pungo?” Shadow was surprised. He’d heard about her; there’d been a book written on the subject many years ago, it was very popular in the area and still talked about.
    “No.” Jonesy grinned. “Mamie never got the publicity ol’ Grace Sherwood did, mostly because this cape was so remote that the story didn’t get spread far. Matter of fact, folks around here make a point of not mentioning the one you’re asking about by name, much less talking about her to outsiders. She’s mostly forgotten, but there’s folks living around Back Bay who blame her for their troubles.”
    “Why’s that?”
    Jonesy answered the question with one of his own. “How much do you know about witches?”
    “As much as anyone I guess. You know, black cats, brooms, magic spells, pointy hats.”
    “That’s what I figured,” Jonesy said with a chuckle. “That’s the modern, sanitized version—good for the kiddies on Halloween.”
    “So what’s the difference in these old time witches?”
    “Serious shit. They were in league with Satan—say, you know how they could tell if a woman was a witch, don’t you?”
    Shadow put the wrapper to his lips, sucking out the last bite of candy. “Didn’t they torture them, like in the Salem witch trials?”
    “Maybe up north. Down here we had a better way. You ever go down Witchduck Road in Virginia Beach?”
    “Sure, all the time.”
    Jonesy laughed. “So what did you think it was named for? Some kind of duck, like a wood duck, maybe?”
    Shadow started to answer, but Jonesy went on.
    “No, a witchducking was how they proved whether someone was a witch. They’d put her on the end of a long pole and duck her under water.” He held out his hand and let it flop down at the end of his wrist. “If she lived...” His hand came back up. “She was a witch—and that’s all there was to it.”
    “What if she drowned?”
    “She was innocent of course—perfectly logical from their point of view. Safer to kill an innocent woman rather than take a chance on her being a witch.”
    “So Mamie Bunch...” Shadow licked some gooey chocolate off his fingertips. “Did she sink or—”
    “Look, Shadow.” Jonesy interrupted. “Would you quit saying her name? I know it don’t make sense, but in my family, growing up, we didn’t use her name. Brought bad luck.”
    “Sorry.” He looked over at Jonesy’s expression, figuring he was putting him on. As usual, it was hard to tell. “So how are you sure ‘you know who’ was a witch?”
    “Well, when a lot of bad things began happening in Wash Woods one fall,