Chapter 3: Warlock’s Judgment

The man locked in the shed somehow broke free!

He burst through the door, wild-eyed and covered in mud. Blood streaked his face, but his eyes were sharp, burning with something fierce.

He looked like a man possessed, like something out of an old folk tale. The crowd shrank back, unsure whether to run or fight.

He stood in the center of the yard, face twisted with rage, and laughed coldly at the people on the porch:

His laughter was sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“You’re all going to die! Every last one of you in Hollow Creek! Not a single one will escape!”

His words rang out, echoing off the trees. The crowd froze, fear written on every face.

His words sent the whole yard into chaos.

People screamed, plates crashed, chairs toppled over.

Mayor Whitlock cursed, “You bastard! How did you get out? Somebody tie him up and beat him to death!”

His voice cracked, desperate. He looked around for his men, but they hesitated, uncertain for the first time.

His thugs rushed forward.

They grabbed whatever they could—sticks, bottles, anything that might work as a weapon.

Mayor Whitlock whipped out a gleaming hunting knife—he was really losing it, ready to finish the man himself.

The blade caught the light, flashing silver. The mayor’s hand shook, but he stepped forward anyway, determined to end it.

Just as blood was about to be spilled, Grandpa rushed in front of the mayor and shouted to the man, “Stranger, don’t do anything crazy! It’s a wedding day—sit tight, have a drink, say a few kind words, and we’ll let you go. We’re not looking to kill anybody.”

Grandpa’s voice was loud, pleading. He stepped between the mayor and the stranger, arms outstretched.

Grandpa hadn’t even finished when the man suddenly raised his hand, pointed at Grandpa, and shouted, his voice booming like thunder:

“By the old blood moon, by the wild hunt, I call the pack! Stand down—!”

The words sounded strange, ancient. The hair on my arms stood up. The air crackled, charged with something I couldn’t see.

At first, everyone thought he was just raving, waiting for the Whitlocks to beat him up.

People laughed nervously, unsure whether to take him seriously. The mayor sneered, ready to strike.

But as soon as he finished, there was a thunderous bang!

The sound shook the ground, rattling the windows. Plates fell, glasses shattered. For a second, I thought the sky itself was splitting open.

Before everyone’s stunned eyes, Grandpa was knocked back as if hit by an invisible force, sent clear across the lawn and crashing into a picnic table!

He landed hard, the table splintering beneath him. Food and drinks flew everywhere. Someone screamed.

People scattered, ducking for cover. The music died, replaced by the sound of breaking glass and panicked shouts.

Luckily, as Grandpa flew, he shoved me aside. I tumbled to the ground, my butt aching, but at least I didn’t get crushed.

I landed hard, the breath knocked out of me. I scrambled to my feet, searching for Grandpa in the mess.

The thought chilled me. I owed Grandpa my life—again.

I was paralyzed with fear, staring at Grandpa groaning on the ground, my mind blank.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All I could do was watch as the world fell apart around me.

The townsfolk, who’d been laughing a moment before, all went silent—like someone cut the sound.

The silence was absolute, broken only by Grandpa’s groans. Even the Whitlocks looked shaken.

Then came a chorus of gasps.

People covered their mouths, eyes wide. Someone dropped a plate, the crash echoing in the silence.

And then, everyone screamed and scrambled away, leaving a wide circle around us!

It was like a stampede—people tripping over benches, knocking over chairs, desperate to get away from whatever had just happened.

“Holy crap! What kind of move was that? He just sent Old Walter flying!”

“Dear lord! He didn’t even touch him! Is this guy some kind of warlock?”

“He let the Whitlocks beat him before—he must have been hiding his strength!”

The whispers grew louder, panic spreading like wildfire. Nobody knew what to do, but everyone knew they didn’t want to be next.

Mayor Whitlock was stunned, dropping his knife with a clang.

The blade hit the ground, sticking in the dirt. The mayor’s hands shook, his face pale.

His face turned beet red, eyes full of suspicion and fear, unsure what to do.

He looked at his son, then at the stranger, sweat beading on his forehead. For the first time, he looked scared.

After what we’d just seen, anything felt possible.

Nobody wanted to say the word out loud, but everyone was thinking it. Warlock. Witch. Monster.

He didn’t dare act rashly, but my grandma couldn’t hold back!

My grandma, Edna Brooks, was a feisty woman.

She marched across the yard, fists clenched, ready to take on the world...

Seeing Grandpa coughing up blood, she screamed, “Walter!” and rushed at the stranger, ready to fight.

Her voice cracked, raw with fear and fury. She didn’t care if he was a warlock or the devil himself—nobody hurt her husband and got away with it.

The man just frowned, didn’t even look at her, and impatiently pointed, barking, “Stand down!”

His voice was sharp, commanding. The air seemed to vibrate with power.

Crack!

This time, it wasn’t a dull thud, but a sharp clap of thunder!

The sound was deafening, rattling the windows and sending birds fleeing from the trees.

Almost at the same time, lightning split the sky, casting a ghastly light over everyone’s faces in the yard.

The flash was blinding, painting everything in white and blue. For a moment, it felt like time stopped.

The folks at the gate and along the fence looked up in shock.

Their faces were pale, mouths open. Nobody moved, nobody breathed.

By the time they heard Grandma’s wail, she was already flying through the air, landing right on top of Grandpa.

She landed with a thud, knocking the wind out of both of them. Grandpa groaned, clutching his side.

He coughed up another mouthful of blood and lay still.

The sight of both Brooks elders laid out was enough to send the crowd into a panic. Some folks started praying, others just ran.

That move terrified everyone.

Nobody had ever seen anything like it. Even the toughest Whitlock men shrank back, afraid to make eye contact.

Whatever he was, it wasn’t a trick.

The word spread like wildfire. Warlock. Witch. Devil. Nobody knew what he was, but everyone was afraid.

Grandpa struggled up, spitting foamy blood, his face white as a sheet.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to look brave. But I could see the fear in his eyes.

He got to his knees, ignoring Grandma, and bowed to the man: “The Five Thunders rite… Please—warlock, spare us! I—I’m Walter Brooks. We were wrong, all of us! Have mercy on Hollow Creek!”

His voice shook, but he forced himself to speak. He bowed low, pressing his forehead to the dirt. The crowd watched, stunned.

Grandma clutched her chest, groaning in pain.

She tried to sit up, but her breath came in ragged gasps. I rushed to her side, tears streaming down my face.

I grabbed her hand, whispering, “Hang on, Grandma. Please, just hang on.”

The man stood with his hands behind his back, gaze sweeping over us coldly. His voice was icy, emotionless:

“You fools. Your lives are hanging by a thread, and you don’t even know it! I came to save you, and you tried to kill me. Unbelievable.”

His words cut like knives, each syllable colder than the last. I wanted to shout back, but the words stuck in my throat.

I didn’t buy it for a second.

He sounded like every conman who ever rolled through town, promising salvation for a price. But something about him felt real—dangerous.

Save us? If he really wanted to help, he wouldn’t have let himself get beaten up at first.

I watched him, searching for a crack in his armor. But his face was unreadable, cold as stone.

He was hiding something.

I could feel it, deep down. There was more to his story than he was letting on.

But I couldn’t figure out what.

The pieces didn’t fit. I felt like I was missing something important, something that could change everything.

Mayor Whitlock believed him—or maybe he had no choice.

He looked around, searching for help, but nobody stepped forward. The Whitlocks were on their own now.

He was shaking like a leaf, barely able to stand without help.

His hands trembled, sweat pouring down his face. For the first time, he looked like a man out of his depth.

But Lucas, still tipsy, cursed, “You bastard, playing tricks…”

His voice was slurred, but the anger was real. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled.

Before he could finish, thunder boomed again—real thunder, right overhead!

The sound was so loud it rattled the windows. The sky flashed, even though the clouds hadn’t moved.

All the townsfolk were scared out of their wits, dropping to their knees, stammering, “Warlock, please forgive us!”

“We didn’t know who you were, please have mercy…”

“Spare us!”

The crowd begged, voices overlapping, hands clasped in prayer. Even the toughest men wept.

Even Lucas sobered up, glancing at the crowd of kneeling folks and the man’s grim face, torn between fear and defiance.

He looked at his father, then at the stranger, his bravado slipping away. He muttered curses under his breath, but didn’t dare stand up.

He finally knelt, grumbling under his breath, “Warlock? What warlock? He’s just a conman!”

He spat in the dirt, but his hands shook. He was scared, no matter what he said.

Lucas wasn’t stupid—he was testing the man.

He wanted to see if the stranger would react, if the magic was real. I held my breath, waiting for the next explosion.

Sure enough, I noticed the man sway ever so slightly, sweat beading at his temple.

He looked tired, drained. Maybe the magic was costing him more than he let on.

Just then, Grandpa suddenly coughed up a mouthful of black blood and nearly fainted.

His body shook, his face turning gray. I reached for him, panic rising in my chest.

I was about to call for help when I felt Grandpa pinch my thigh hard, making me almost yelp!

The pain jolted me, snapping me back to reality. Grandpa’s eyes met mine, sharp and clear.

A jolt ran through me—he was faking!

I bit my lip, holding back a cry. Grandpa was putting on a show, but I didn’t know why.

I quickly hugged him and wailed, “Grandpa! Don’t die! What’ll I do if you die?”

I threw myself into the role, tears streaming down my face. The crowd watched, some pitying, others just relieved it wasn’t them.

My mind was spinning. This was risky—if the Whitlocks caught on, we’d be in big trouble.

I glanced at the mayor, at Lucas, but they were too distracted to notice. I kept crying, hoping nobody would see through us.

Luckily, I held back from blurting out, “Grandpa, why’d you pinch me?”

I bit my tongue, forcing myself to stay in character. The last thing we needed was more attention.

I couldn’t figure out why Grandpa was pretending to be hurt. What good would it do him?

Maybe he was trying to buy time, or maybe he knew something I didn’t. Either way, I trusted him.

But there was no time to think.

The world was spinning out of control, and all I could do was hold on.

Those thunderclaps and Grandpa’s near-death act had scared most people into submission.

Nobody wanted to test the stranger’s power again. The crowd stayed low, heads bowed, waiting for judgment.

With thunder rolling outside and lightning flashing, the yard flickered between light and shadow, the atmosphere growing even more eerie and terrifying.

The air crackled, every breath heavy with fear. I could feel the storm building, ready to break.

No one dared look the man in the eye—except Lucas, who was still muttering curses.

He glared at the stranger, jaw clenched. But even he didn’t stand up again.

Mayor Whitlock was desperate, all pride forgotten. He rushed over, forcing Lucas’s head to the ground, begging, “Warlock, please forgive us! We didn’t know who you were—please, have mercy! I beg you, stay for the feast. When it’s over, we’ll give you a proper apology!”

The mayor’s voice cracked, tears streaming down his face. He clung to the stranger’s boots, begging for mercy.

The mayor was groveling.

It was a sight nobody ever expected to see. The king of Hollow Creek, brought low by fear.

I snuck a look—the man looked pale but kept his cold, stern expression.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. His eyes swept over the crowd, calculating.

He sneered, said nothing, and began pacing in a crooked circle, his steps dizzying, like some kind of ritual dance.

He muttered words under his breath, words I didn’t recognize. The ground seemed to tremble beneath his feet.

Then he pointed to the sky and ground, declaring, “A feast? Ha! The blood moon is rising! The wild hunt is restless! If you go through with this, none of you will live through the night!”

His voice rang out, clear and cold. The words sent shivers through the crowd.

“Bullshit!”

Lucas cursed, trying to stand.

His voice was weak, but the anger was real. He pushed himself up, fists clenched.

Mayor Whitlock smacked him down again.

He grabbed Lucas by the collar, forcing him to kneel. The crowd watched, silent.

He ignored his son, voice trembling, “Warlock, please forgive him—he’s drunk! Since your magic is so powerful, please, save our town!”

His voice was desperate, pleading. The mayor was willing to do anything to save his family.

The kneeling folks, terrified at the mention of death, wailed for help.

“Save us, warlock!”

“We don’t want to die!”

The cries rose, a chorus of fear and regret. Some folks promised to change, others just begged for another chance.

The man stood tall, gaze shifting to the bride.

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. The crowd held its breath, waiting.

She sat unmoving, red veil over her head, as if nothing outside mattered.

She was the eye of the storm, untouched by the chaos around her. I wondered if she was even still alive.

“Red clings to her like a stain, black smoke all over her. The dead won’t rest, the living have no luck. Two souls in one body—a ghost wedding binding the dead to the living. You Whitlocks are using this woman as a bridge to steal fortune from the grave. You’re in over your heads. The Whitlocks’ dead have already taken hold of the bride. Am I right?”

His words sent a chill through the crowd. People glanced at each other, fear growing.

Mayor Whitlock’s eyes bulged, glancing at Grandpa for confirmation, but said nothing—he’d been exposed.

His face turned gray, lips pressed tight. He looked at Grandpa, but Grandpa just stared at the ground.

The townsfolk gasped—they’d never heard of such sinister tricks in a wedding.

Nobody wanted to believe it, but the evidence was right in front of them. The Whitlocks had gone too far, and now everyone would pay the price.

No one expected the mayor would use black magic to let a ghost possess a living woman just to chase luck and money.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. Folks started praying, others just wept.

All eyes turned, fearful, to Lucas.

He looked lost, scared for the first time. His bravado melted away, replaced by fear.

Lucas stiffened, protesting, “Impossible! No way! My…my brother wouldn’t…”

His voice broke, tears welling in his eyes. He looked at the bride, desperate for a sign.

He broke free from the mayor’s grip, ready to rush onto the porch and rip off the bride’s veil.

He stumbled forward, hands shaking. The crowd shouted, trying to stop him.

Luckily, a few Whitlock family members held him back.

They grabbed his arms, pulling him away from the porch. He fought, but they held tight.

The man laughed, slow and sinister. “You want to lift her veil? Go ahead! But let me warn you—if you do, the ghost wedding will be complete! Then, one dead, one living, plus a body possessed by a ghost—three tangled together. Something terrible will happen, and you won’t even know how you died!”

His laughter sent chills down my spine. The crowd shrank back, afraid to even look at the bride.

The townsfolk panicked, shouting for him to stop.

“Don’t do it, Lucas!”

“Don’t be reckless!”

The shouts grew louder, desperate. Nobody wanted to see what would happen if the veil was lifted.

But Lucas just sneered, “What’s there to be afraid of? I’m going to lift it and see for myself! If he’s lying, I’ll chop him up and feed him to the dogs!”

His voice was shaky, but the threat was real. He pushed against his family, desperate to prove the stranger wrong.

I felt Grandpa’s palm sweating—I knew this was bad.

His grip tightened on my arm, his eyes wide with fear. I knew we were standing on the edge of something terrible.

Lucas was a drunk and a brute—if he lifted that veil, people really were going to die today!

The air was thick with dread, the sky darkening overhead. I held my breath, waiting for the storm to break.