Bell Witch  

Hi there. So along with the podcast, I will be releasing my serialized novella via this site. It's in the form of The Bell Witch's discovered diary. Enjoy!



 

Easter Sunday, 1815 

I got a dog today to celebrate the resurrection of our dead, still walking Savior and to feel the power of new life. I celebrated alone. I prefer it that way. But it is nice having a dog to celebrate with now.

My new dog is a real razor tooth, she is. A face only I could love. One eye missing, and the other looks like it was stabbed crooked by the Devil’s hot poker, in between stoking eternal flames and putting the fear of God into the burning. I don’t think old Lucifer or any of  his shadow minions would try to hurt my new furry friend. They’d be too scared to. 

I keep her chained to the wall of the cave that I proudly, silently call home. She took a quick liking to me. I named her Wormwood. It’s a name direct from the bible. You can look it up. It’s in my favorite book of the Good Book. Revelations Chapter 8:10-11. Given how few people care about the good moral teachings of His word, I find it most appropriate to read out this verse to you. 

 

“And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; 

And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.” 

  

I do love that verse. I done pierced myself with a piece of sharp stone, and wrote half of it upon the equally sharp stone walls of my cave. I will write the other half at a different time. I was so happy to have a dog and wanted to make our home look more inviting for her. I do think that bible verse blood scrawl will do just that. 

  

I don’t like the idea of my dear Wormwood being chained to my wall but I live here to avoid company, and she would surely bring it if left unchained. She can’t bark, poor thing. She can snarl, though. I’m sure she can bite. Her owner before me assured me that she only bites other people, though. Never the master or mistress. It's how Wormwood was trained. The seller, he only had half a leg and one hand, the arm of it charred at the end, his way of saving it with a hot cast iron. The owner assured me that he lost the hand in a saw mill accident. I don’t think it was Wormwood who did it, really I don’t. I think she could do that and worse, though. Much worse.

  

Her former master's name was Wally, and he was a member of some traveling show that set up shop wherever they saw fit. The people in it swallowed fire and f=swords, laid on pins, told jokes and stories, juggled, and put on short plays portraying the very worst of sinful mores and transgressions, most of ‘em highly offensive to the town politicians. Wally said he got Wormwood for the protection on the roads, and he assured me that as a result no bandits ever once laid a hand on them or the caravans. I believe them. 

So Wormwood and myself will have us a nice home together. I won’t let her out except for at nightime, when we won’t be seen. She can snarl and snap at any unwelcomed, irresponsible children who might see fit to visit. They’ve been driving me to drink lately, and my lectures all seem to fall on deaf ears. I know that their next visit will be their last, though. And for once I can live my life in the pleasure and privacy that the hands of an angry god created me to enjoy. Light my fires, shriek my prayers silently  into the flames, make my herbal concoctions to sell at market, watch my new friend feast on whatever vermin or child is unfortunate to enter into my home. 

What a good dog. My wormwood.