There is no better way to spend Halloween than sitting round a camp-fire deep in the woods, drinking home-made hooch and telling scary stories, legends of dark deeds and ghostly ghouls. It was something that started with his grandparents when George was a child, and while it was then soft-drinks and tame tales, that sense of awe and wonder grew strong in the young boy's mind.
The tradition continued through adolescence growing from family trips, to grandfather/grandson excursions and on to teenage gatherings. As the boy matured, so did the level of competition, to both get drunk and instil fear.
George had always put a great deal of effort into researching stories, often leaning on authors such as Edgar Allan Poe and his personal favourite, Edith Wharton. It mattered little if he couldn’t recite a story word for word without the text; he could remember enough and had the voice and emphasis to get under the thickest of skins.
There was however one that he kept to himself through those early days, a tale of witches and rituals held deep in the forests of Massachusetts dating back hundreds of years, a tale handed down through family. It was a legend that made George nervous, for the myths and legends that surrounded what he'd been told had led to the wholesale slaughter of many of his kin.
Now married and approaching thirty, George had reached a pivotal moment. More of his friends were settling down or moving because of work. Worse was the drive to start a family; an incessant topic of conversation among the women. George still questioned if he was ready to give up the regular weekend trips and carefree lifestyle but knew that for his wife, five years his senior, timing was an issue.
“Do we have to?” Lucy pleaded as she studied the calendar on her phone.
“If your two sisters move away and Fliss gets herself pregnant, this could be our last chance for all of us to go camping for ages,” he said when his wife refused to be moved by his pathetic attempt to sulk. He knew Lucy shared her school-friends maternal hopes, but he coped better by not speaking about it. “And you know Halloween is my favourite.”
“I guess," Lucy conceded after considering her options; the impromptu party at the governor's residence may have had some career advantage, but would have been tedious. “But you'd better not try plying me with anything but the finest shop-bought gin, and the stories better be good.”
“The best yet,” he promised.
Just a day later, sat round a blazing log fire, George, his wife and the three other couples ate greasy, charred sausages and chicken wings off paper plates and salad out of plastic bowls. It was a mild evening, the moon casting a ghostly glow on the surface of the eerily still lake.
“We all appreciate the difference between a myth and a legend,” George started after the conversation and drunken giggles died away, his voice soft and deep. “My wife will oblige you with a dictionary definition if anyone is unsure,” the words focusing the attention of his audience and extracting a scowl from Lucy.
“While it is part of our history that witches lived and breathed among the people in this region, the tales of how they were discovered and killed are not so well known.”
“But we do know,” came the voice of Lucy’s younger sister in a derisory and disappointed tone.
“They were hung!”
“Those that were caught and found guilty were certainly hanged,” George replied solemnly, “but that was during the now infamous witch-trials that we have learnt so much about. Sadly, witches were hunted and persecuted for many years before that and for many years after. When left to concerned townsfolk, women suspected of sorcery were thrown into deep water in the belief that the evil that lived in them would prevent them from drowning. The vast majority though were innocent, having done little more than speak out against someone. Of course, the sheer weight of their wet clothing would have made it difficult for any of them to regain the surface, so they drowned. If they survived, they proved their guilt and were put to death by fire. Many drowned right here in this very lake. There are plenty that believe their bodies are still there. Some think they are waiting.”
He waited as eyes turned towards the water, enjoying the heightened suspense of the silence.
“Although hundreds died, many that were genuine witches lived. Back then it was presumed that witches were female, but the power they held had little to do with their gender. Women were stronger and held positions of leadership but many witches were men. Equally, many survived by being too wily to do or say anything to cast suspicion in such dangerous times. Careful to guard their secret, they would meet here in the woods behind us, on nights such as this, when the moon was full. There would be rituals performed to keep their craft alive, things handed down through the generations, actions that paid homage to their surroundings and events to mourn the great loss of life."
For several minutes nobody spoke. George wasn’t even sure if anyone was still breathing. He enjoyed creating tension and had become a master, but tonight he felt uncertain.
“What sort of rituals?”
“Some, it is said, were just holding hands and singing or chanting, things to invoke the energies of the forest, much the same as people say prayers and sing hymns in church, but the secrecy necessary to protect their kind cast a sinister slant on what they did. As the tales became myths and passed down through the ages, it came to be believed that they were summoning dark spirits, creatures that brought evil into the world, demons that could walk through these lone places and could raise the bodies of those that had died.”
Even George noticed how the air got colder, how the once blazing embers seemed to lose their heat. He watched as his wife and Fliss huddled closer together, pulling a blanket tighter over their shoulders, hoping for protection.
“Of course, that is the nature of myths; the belief in something that has no evidence, but if you look at some of the rituals, it is perhaps easy to see how these things were misinterpreted. For example, once a year, there would be a ritual that was sexual, an opportunity to make new life and ensure the bloodline of these ancient families; an opportunity to birth a new generation. It is suggested these rituals were akin to orgies.”
“Sign me up,” giggled Lucy’s youngest sister.
“Jennifer!” The older siblings spoke in unison, the tone scornful.
“What? You mean if I saw at the search histories on your computers I wouldn’t find orgies and gang-bangs hidden in there?”
Nobody spoke. The fact everyone looked anywhere but at each-other more telling than any words.
“It is said,” continued George, trying to cover the awkwardness and regain some control, “the women that were brought to these rituals were not born to witches as they would have wanted to avoid inbreeding. It is said the women that were brought to these rituals were virgins."
“Well, you won’t find any of them here tonight, so we’re safe girls.” The voice again belonged to Jen, this time more demure.
“Back when stories of these rites became myth, or legend,” George added, “virgin meant only that a woman had yet to have a child.”
Again a silence descended. George studied the exchanged glances, the unspoken thoughts, the subtle movement of bodies into positions more secure. He imagined his wife would not be sharing a sleeping bag with him tonight, but wasn’t too sure that mattered.
“You said waiting. Waiting for what?”
The question came from Lucy. George knew it would be her that asked, knew it would be her that would pick up the loose-end. Her timing would not have been better if he’d scripted it.
“It is said,” he replied, “That on the night of Halloween, when the moon was near full, the veil between the living and the dead fell away and the spirits could rise.”
George paused, almost too scared to speak what he knew followed.
“It is said, that on the night of Halloween they demanded the living to believe. They wanted their story to be told.”
“You arse!”
A cold, greasy sausage hit George across the side of the face, both insult and missile coming from Fliss.
“I for one am putting a bloody padlock on the zip of my sleeping bag tonight,” Fliss added her tone vehement. “And as I have no intention of getting out even for a pee, you might want to consider sleeping with someone else.”
The latter words were aimed directly at her boyfriend, along with a look that affirmed there would be no room for him, or negotiation.
“Well, I have no intention of wetting my pants so you, George Sullivan, are sure as fuck coming with me. Now.”
“I think that means we say goodnight,” George said, smiling. “I hope you all sleep well and have pleasant dreams.”
As he stood and helped his wife get to her feet, a slur of half-angry murmurs came back at him. As he accompanied his wife away from the clearing, out of sight and earshot of the others, he didn’t know whether to feel pleased with what he’d achieved, or anxious of what would follow.
“Turn your back,” Lucy demanded when she’d thought she’d walked far enough, “you’re not watching after all that.”
The last word was almost spat. She would frequently get angry at him when confronted with something she didn’t understand and worse, couldn’t control. It was part of the reason he loved and wanted to share his life with her, but he knew from experience, she wouldn’t want him near her tonight.
As he stood and listened to the sounds of Lucy and the night, the lamp dimmed and the moon vanished behind a cloud. It was pitch. George didn't move.
“For fuck’s sake George, stop playing about,” Lucy screamed her voice a violent mix of fear and hurt. “And get your hand off my ass!”
George knew then it had started.
An hour later, with everyone ensconced in their tents, George stood by the edge of the lake. For a while he was able to relax and enjoy the view and peaceful sounds of the tide rippling over the rocks at his feet. That serenity was broken when he realised his grandmother was standing by his side.
“My dear boy, I know you are nervous, but you have done well. Exceptionally well considering this is your first time.”
“This is not nerves Gran; this is disappointment, in me. I am not used to deceiving people.”
“But you have deceived no one my boy. You told your friends a story, and from what I heard you did not deviate from the truth. Whether they believe is a product of their imagination and not in your power.”
“But I was not honest about why. Why I had to have them here, why it had to be this night or what might happen.”
“Dear boy.” The old woman spoke softly, reaching out and taking George’s hand in hers. “You were always sensitive, and it is something you should be proud of. You know this is for the good of our kind. You know it is the only way of extending our bloodline, especially now we are so few. You are not forcing them to do anything. You have planted a seed in their minds. If they wish to follow their imagination and let that seed flourish, that is up to them. You know we would never force them. If they come and join us, they do so of their own free will.”
“But it's all sorcery and witchcraft,” Georges’ tone harsher than intended. “Willing or not, they won’t remember anything when they wake in the morning.”
“Some may recall in the deepest of their dreams, but most won’t be aware that anything ever happened, save for a little discomfort and perhaps some stained underwear but, if it were different, we would not have survived all these years. More of us would lay at the bottom of this lake.”
George chose silence. He had rehearsed the arguments in his mind over and over until it exhausted him. He knew there was no answer to how he felt, and he recognised how much he owed his grandparents.
“Are you ready?” The old woman asked. Her voice was as soft and comforting as it and always been.
As George said yes, held tight to his Gram’s hand and looked out over the water, a host of spirits rose and started towards him. Gran had often described them, how they would look, the clothes they wore, so George knew what to expect, though saw little more than a shimmer in the surrounding air.
The energy they had conjured drifted to the tents and slipped inside; the canvas, the zips, the threatened padlocks, no barrier. There was the inevitable pause as imaginations were questioned, dreams interrupted and decisions made, but soon George witnessed two people emerge, his wife and Fliss. He had expected it would be just Jen after her displays of bravado.
Perplexed, George looked on as both women stopped to don shoes and jackets (unnecessary for where they would end) and walk off into the woods. George wanted to believe that they would be unaware what they were about to experience but appreciated, in those brief moments in the tent, they became conscious of everything that was about to happen and were willingly, if not enthusiastically, stepping towards it. He also knew the rest would sleep soundly until long after they returned.
After perhaps twenty minutes, seemingly unguided, they arrived at a clearing deep in the forest far away from anyone and anything; a clearing occasionally discovered by forestry workers but surrounded by enchantment. No-one but the witches would notice the charred remnants of the now burning fires, the well-trodden ground where a group of thirty men and women stood, or the flat bases of old trees worn silky smooth by the years of human touch.
George had been to the clearing many times and enjoyed the perceived peace and belonging when he was there. He had witnessed the ritual twice and knew he would lose himself in the atmosphere and frenzy, but this was his first time influencing the choices made and that created apprehension.
As Lucy and Fliss reached the centre, George stepped forward and introduced the two to all present. They had met his grandfather on many occasions, not least at the wedding (he gave the longest speech), but this would only register subliminally in their minds. After much kissing and hugging, several men walked forward and started to undress both women. George knew he was expected to help but in the circumstances preferred to watch.
As freely as Lucy and Fliss allowed their clothes to be removed, so the men allowed their hands to wander, gliding over breasts and buttocks, squeezing nipples and exploring between thighs. There were few rules to be followed at these rituals but there was an accepted protocol in allowing the elders to be first. After the men removed the last pieces of the women’s clothing they stood back. George’s grandfather stepped forward. Lucy and Fliss turned their attention to helping him with his clothes.
It was, for George, surreal. He knew the magic at these rituals and understood the powerful suggestions that would have been planted in his wife’s mind, but while they may help a woman free herself of inhibitions, he knew they could make no one do something they did not want to do. George knew that at some level his dear, apparently faithful wife had considered fucking his grandfather. She did not appear troubled by his exposed body, by the sight of his peculiarly long and thick penis, and seemed thrilled when she held it in her hand and encouraged his erection.
All three naked, Lucy lay back onto the tree stump, Fliss providing an impromptu pillow with her lap. The two women smiled at each-other lovingly as Lucy raised both her legs up to her chest, spreading her thighs wide and exposing every detail of her sex.
The old man stepped forward, the large bulbous head of his manhood glistening in the firelight, huge testicles swinging comfortably between his hairy thighs. He stood in front of Lucy and with a smile and nod towards his grandson penetrated her, pushing his cock deep through the puffy lips of her cunt.
George heard his wife. It was part scream, part moan. He knew her vagina was being stretched beyond anything she had experienced with him. He could almost feel her insides being distended, her womb being pushed up into her stomach. His grandfather did not seem to want to stop until the full length had vanished from sight.
George hoped the complete assault on Lucy's mind had left her sufficiently aroused and wet that such a punishing first fuck would not rip the skin, but his grandfather appeared to be sliding in and out of his wife with considerable ease.
He could not tell how long the performance lasted; it could have been seconds, it could have been hours, but when the two climaxed, it was simultaneous and explosive, both shuddering and releasing loud groans. When his grandfather eventually stepped back, George could see white sticky semen leak from his wife’s now gaping cunt.
He then stepped forward. Fliss and Lucy stood to help George remove his clothes and while he expected to be fucking his wife, it was Fliss that held his semi-hard cock in her hand the moment it was exposed, then sinking to her knees to take it in her mouth. Lucy just watched, all the time smiling and content.
Fliss then took it upon herself to climb back onto the tree stump but instead of lying on her back, crouched on all fours pushing her rear out and towards George. His wife took his hand, almost leading him towards fucking her best friend. It was Lucy that then gripped his now throbbing prick, guided it between Fliss’s soft moist lips and placed her hands on Fliss’s bum cheeks, spreading them wide, exposing the woman’s puckered anus. It was Lucy that accepted the proffered jar from one of the women and spread some liquid over her friend's tight hole and the head and shaft of his cock.
Anal sex was not something George had ever experienced and was not something his wife had ever wanted to contemplate but, he quickly realised, neither was him being shared with another woman. They were however things he had thought about. In those moments in the tent, these women would have been assured of George's deepest and darkest desires, and would have been guided to reveal their own.
It was Lucy’s hand that handled his cock into position but George that pushed, overwhelmed by a desire to be inside this woman. He had known Fliss for a long time, their friendship key to meeting Lucy, and while he had grown fond of her, his feelings had never been sexual.
Now, having seen her naked, having seen her sagging breasts, the loose flesh around her belly, her large wrinkled nipples, the untidy mop of pubic hair and that sweet, most private of openings, George was aroused beyond anything he could imagine.
The first thrusts were met with considerable resistance and sharp intakes of breath, but as much as Lucy seemed to be willing him on, Fliss was pushing back onto him. When the head of his cock passed through her tight sphincter, Fliss screamed and started to cry but George was by then, past the point he could have stopped.
With one hard, long thrust he felt the length of his cock slide in and came. Whilst it may have been the shortest fuck that George had experienced, it was the longest orgasm he remembered. He could feel his cock pulsing, releasing semen deep into this woman’s bowel and when he withdrew, spraying hot sticky liquid over the soft white flesh of her ass.
As George stepped back and considered cleaning himself up, others took the opportunity to get the party moving. There appeared to be a rush of people hugging, kissing and stripping off any remnants of clothing, until it became a mass of naked flesh. George knew there were eighteen men excluding himself and his grandfather, amid those bodies, Lucy and Fliss.
George wanted to rest and close out what was happening, but found he was unable to take his eyes off his wife. Sometimes the crowd stopped him from seeing and his nervous energy almost drove him to get closer, but mostly he was able to sit at the edge of the clearing and watch.
What he saw was partly just people hugging and dancing, though there was no music. A few of the men paired up with the female witches present, but most hovered close to or with the two guests. For a long while, George felt it was like any of the parties he had been to through his adult life; people drinking and enjoying each-others' company. What was different was the location, the nudity and the knowledge of what this night was for.
Occasionally the movement would stop and individuals would stand and watch while others kissed and caressed, but as those more innocent gestures turned sexual, the throng gathered around the tree stump, unwilling to miss the performance. George stepped to the front of the huddle.
What George witnessed was the sizable crowd of men enjoy sex with both his wife and Fliss. It became impossible to keep count of how many took which woman or if each man only chose one. He watched as many hands touched Lucy’s body, squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples. He saw fingers disappear inside her vagina, anus and mouth. He looked on as she was fucked standing up, lying down and crouched on all fours.
George thought back to the myths that surrounded these rituals, the stories of demons ravishing girls, unwillingly sacrificed. The behaviour of Lucy and Fliss was not even submissive; as one coupling completed, the women would seek the next, their body language and vocal orgasms assuring all they were enjoying every second.
Sometimes Lucy would have but one man with his cock buried deep in her cunt and one occasion when two fucked her. George could not make out if both were in her vagina or if one had succeeded where he himself had failed and taken her virgin ass.
One of the older male witches appeared to get impatient with his younger counterparts. He knelt by Lucy’s face and jerked himself. As he reached his climax, George watched him push the head of his swollen cock into his wife’s mouth and ejaculate down her throat. Lucy at first seemed shocked, then gagged, swallowed and smiled at the man. Something else George had failed to achieve.
As the activity ended the crowd dispersed leaving just George, his grandparents and a few of the female witches. The fires had died down and the first glimmers of daylight were gathering strength. Lucy and Fliss remained laying on their backs, thighs spread wide, holding hands and smiling lovingly at each other. George could see the red, punished, swollen lips of their sex and dribbles of semen and vaginal mucus forming puddles between their legs.
Just three hours later George stood again by the lake, his wife by his side, resting her head gently against his shoulder, enjoying the peace. The tents and camping gear had been cleared away, goodbyes had been said and his guests had left.
“You know, I don’t remember getting undressed when I got into that sleeping bag last night.” Lucy’s voice had an edge, but George read that as more bewilderment than upset.
“Actually, you went to bed fully clothed and pissed with me for scaring you.”
There was a pause while Lucy’s brain tried to match what she remembered with the reality of the previous evening. The amount of alcohol consumed wasn’t helping.
“So you undressed me during the night while I was out cold?”
“I left that to the party of witches in the woods.” George couldn’t help but laugh as he spoke. His wife’s tone had been angry, but she hadn’t once let go of his hand.
“And I suppose it was the witches that spent half the night fucking me and making me sore?”
George smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Lucy in turn stretched round and kissed her husband on the lips.
“Well, if I have to wait for a gathering of witches to give me a memorable fuck then you must bring me out to the woods more often.
"And,” she added incongruously, her voice bright and buoyant, “I had a strange dream about Gran and Pops last night. We should call in, we haven’t seen them in months.”
Lucy turned and walked back to the car, leaving George standing alone.
“Thank you for insisting we come.”
“Thank you,” he replied, though his focus and attention was not on his wife but on the last of the shimmering figures disappearing back into the lake.
Despite his wife’s wish, it was twenty-five years before George next stood by the lake, this occasion with his daughter and her best friend. He was present, as his grandmother had been with him; to mentor and help on this the girls first time luring other women into a ritual, but George felt his presence unnecessary.
The two, conceived the same night and born the same day, had remained as close co-joined twins. As younger children, their mothers would call them mischievous, but George understood. Their power and ability as witches had developed a lot quicker than any intellectual understanding of who they were.
Now they were masters at story-telling, picking up each other’s thoughts and direction as flawlessly as well-rehearsed theatre, their minds and intuition well honed, their voices soft and seductive, their looks innocently beautiful. No-one could have chosen candidates more perfect for the task.
“Are we ready?” George asked as the three joined hands.
“Don’t forget our bet,” his daughter softly added, “If I get all six women up into that clearing tonight, you’re paying for our trip to Europe.”
George was confident he would lose; he had already booked the flights and paid the deposit.
