The Bargain of Withering Hill

In the waning years of the nineteenth century, the hamlet of Galesbrook lay ensconced within the shadow of Withering Hill, a desolate rise beset by fog and foul rumors. Upon its crest stood a solitary cottage, long fallen into disrepair, where it was said an ancient crone, Agnes, practiced unholy arts. The superstitions of the villagers persisted whispers of blighted crops, of livestock found dead, their eyes open in terror, and of tempests summoned by the old woman's dark will. No soul dared venture near her abode unless driven by the most grievous of needs, and those who did return were forever altered.

Clara Bellingham, however, put little stock in such grim tales. She was a woman of reason, her sensibilities firmly rooted in the rational. Yet now, as her dear husband, Thomas, languished upon his deathbed, fevered and pale as the grave, her certainties were crumbling as swiftly as the autumn leaves. The village physician, having exhausted his remedies, could do naught but shake his head in sorrow. Desperation pressed heavily upon her breast, and in the dead of night, Clara resolved to seek the witch’s aid.

The ascent up Withering Hill was treacherous, the path tangled with roots and brambles, as though the earth itself sought to repel her. The mist clung to her garments, and a profound silence enveloped her, broken only by the soft murmur of her own anxious breath. It was as though the very atmosphere held its breath, waiting, watching.

At last, the cottage loomed before her—small, crooked, and worn by the passage of time. The door, greyed by the elements, stood ajar, as if awaiting her arrival. Clara’s heart pounded in her breast, and with trembling hands, she knocked. The sound echoed unnaturally in the thick air.

The door creaked open, not by any hand of man but by some unseen force. Within, the air was fetid, heavy with the pungent scent of herbs mingled with a metallic tang that set Clara’s teeth on edge. A small fire flickered in the hearth, casting long, writhing shadows upon the walls. Seated before the hearth was a bent figure, her back to the door, her long, white hair a cascade of tangled strands that spilled over her shoulders like cobwebs.

“I have awaited thee,” the old woman rasped, her voice brittle as dead leaves. She did not turn.

Clara took a tentative step forward, her voice faltering. “My husband... He is grievously ill. They say... they say you possess the power to save him.”

The witch emitted a low, mirthless chuckle, a sound that sent a chill through Clara’s bones. “And what compels thee to believe that I should do so?”

“I—I have naught to offer but myself,” Clara replied, desperation tightening her throat. “But if it will save him, I am at thy mercy.”

The crone stirred, and slowly, with a grace that belied her age, turned her face toward Clara. The witch’s eyes were black as pitch, her skin lined like ancient parchment. She regarded Clara with a look that pierced her very soul, as though weighing her worth.

“Thy life is of no consequence to me,” she crooned softly. “But there is another thing—something far more precious—that I would demand of thee.”

Clara’s voice wavered. “Anything... anything, so long as he is spared.”

A smile, cold and cruel, curled upon the witch’s lips. “Thou must offer unto me thy memory of love.”

Clara recoiled, her brow furrowing in confusion. “I do not understand.”

The witch’s eyes gleamed in the firelight, her voice smooth as silk. “If thou wishest for thy husband to live, thou must surrender to me every vestige of affection thou hast ever borne for him. Thy tender recollections—thy first embrace, the joy in his smile, the warmth in thy breast when he speaks to thee—all shall be forfeit. It will be as though thou hast never loved him at all.”

Clara staggered backward, aghast. “But... to what end? How can I live without those memories, without that love?”

“Ah,” said the witch, leaning forward, her voice but a whisper, “that is not for me to say. Thou must decide, and quickly, for each passing moment hastens his demise.”

Clara fled from the cottage, her mind in turmoil. How could she bear to part with the very thing that sustained her through every trial? How could she wake each day beside him, knowing that she had severed the bond that had made her life worth living?

All night she wrestled with her decision, pacing her small cottage, her heart heavy with indecision. By morning, her course was set.

She returned to Withering Hill as the first light of dawn kissed the mist, her eyes red-rimmed but resolute.

“I have decided,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I shall give thee what thou askest.”

The witch smiled—a thin, cruel smile that sent shivers down Clara’s spine. “Very well.”

The ritual was swift, the witch placing her gnarled hands upon Clara’s temples. At once, a sharp, searing pain tore through her skull, and her memories—vivid, cherished—flashed before her eyes. She saw Thomas on their wedding day, his bright laughter, the tender moments shared in the dark of night, their love as constant and enduring as the stars. And then, in an instant, they were gone. She felt an emptiness, vast and aching, where those feelings had once resided.

When the ordeal was done, Clara stood alone, trembling, the weight of what she had lost pressing upon her like a great stone.

“Thou mayest return to thy husband,” the witch said, her voice like the wind through dead branches. “He will live. But thou shalt feel naught for him.”

Clara stumbled back down the hill, her limbs leaden, her mind clouded. When she arrived home, Thomas greeted her, fully recovered, his color returned, his eyes bright. He smiled at her—a smile that once would have filled her heart with joy—but now, it stirred nothing.

The days passed, and though Thomas regained his strength, Clara felt herself slipping further into a hollow despair. She watched him, but it was as though she were gazing upon a stranger. Her heart, once so full, was now a barren wasteland.

One night, she awoke from a fitful sleep, her chest tight with an inexplicable dread. There was something amiss, something wrong at the very core of her being. The following day, she returned to the witch’s cottage.

“I cannot bear it,” she said, her voice cracking. “What have you done to me?”

The witch’s dark eyes glittered with malevolent amusement. “Thou didst offer me thy love, but thou failed to inquire the full measure of the price.”

Clara’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

The witch smiled, a slow, dreadful smile. “Thou didst not merely surrender thy love for him. Thou hast relinquished thy very capacity to love—forever.”

The room spun as the weight of the revelation crashed over Clara.

“Nay,” she whispered, stepping back in horror. “That cannot be!”

The witch’s smile widened. “Oh, but it is. Thou shalt never again know the warmth of affection, for anyone or anything. Thou art mine now, bound to Withering Hill, as surely as the mist clings to the air.”

And so it was that Clara, in seeking to save her beloved, had forfeited the most precious gift of all—the capacity to love, not only for her husband but for all things in this world. And from that day forth, she was bound to the hill, as cold and empty as the witch herself.

Forever.