Witch

Copyright 2013
by Tim O’Rourke

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Story Editor (Hacker)

Lynda O’Rourke

Book cover designed by:

Tim O’Rourke

Copyright: Tim O’Rourke 2013

Copyedited by:

Carolyn M. Pinard

www.thesupernaturalbookeditor.com

This book is dedicated to

Louise Kemp, Tanya Bobrucki, Lisa Ammari, Jennifer Martin-Green, Holly Harper, Claire White, Louise Pearson, Mandy Foster-Meier, Kerry Anne Porter & Michelle Auricht for pimping me!

Thanks to:

Michelle at novelsontherun.blogspot.com

Shana at bookvacations.wordpress.com

Braine & Cimmaron at Talkingsupe.com

Nikki Archer at vampsandstuff.com

Bella at paranormal book club

Sue
McG at Delirium.blogspot.com.ar

Caroline Barker at Areadersreviewblog.wordpress.com

Who all took the time to review my books – Thank you!

You can contact Tim
O’Rourke at

www.Ravenwoodwoodgreys.com

Or by email at
[email protected]

The dog just kept yapping and it was starting to piss me off. This whole thing was starting to feel like a bad idea. Perhaps I should never have driven all the way out here.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, kissing my neck and guiding me backwards towards the kitchen table. 

“It’s the dog,” I whispered, lying down and screwing my eyes shut, trying to block out the sound of
it in the distance.

“Just ignore it and relax,” he
hushed, his whiskey breath hot against my neck.

“Perhaps your dad is on his way back – that’s why the dog’s...” I started and opened my eyes again, looking up into his face.

“He won’t be back for hours,” he murmured, unbuttoning my work shirt, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth, eyes half-shut like two crescent moons.

With one hand placed on the back of his thick neck, I eased myself up onto the table, wondering now if this wasn’t all a big mistake – one which I would later regret. I’d pulled a lot of crazy stunts in the past, but nothing like this – not on duty. But hey, I was just twenty, and entitled to a little bit of fun now and then. I knew, though, that was me talking and not my dad – my sergeant – who was hoping that I would’ve said goodbye to my wild ways once I h
ad joined the police force. I had only joined to make him happy – to get rid of that disapproving look he had in his eyes for me ever since I had turned thirteen. I was twenty now – so he kept reminding me. Time to grow up and take some responsibility.

With the dog howling like a wolf on the other side of the farm, Michael pulled open my shirt, bent forward, and started to kiss my nipples, through the thin lacy fabric of my bra.

“Officer, I need to be punished,” he groaned.

Officer?
I rolled my eyes. He really was getting a kick out of me being a cop. I glanced to the left, down at the stone kitchen floor where some of my uniform now lay. My utility belt with the cuffs, baton, CS spray still attached and my police radio, which hissed and crackled as if searching for a signal. I needed to keep it close – listen for any urgent calls. What with the dog howling and the radio hissing and spitting, how was I ever going to relax enough to enjoy Michael? It was no good and I just couldn’t cross that line of no return and fully let go. As Michael trailed a soft, wet line of kisses over my breasts and down the flat of stomach, I reached forward, fumbled for his trouser belt, then let go.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, pushing himself against my thigh. I could tell that he was excited and having no problem in giving in to the moment.

“I can’t,” I breathed, my heart starting to race – not with excitement, but fear. What if a call should come in now, a call for urgent assistance from one of my colleagues? I was miles from town. Could my radio even get a signal this far out? It had the other day, hadn’t it? I tried to remember. Even though Michael was smothering me in kisses and now trying to tug my trousers free, this whole thing didn’t seem like a good idea anymore.

I’d known Michael had wanted me from the moment I had arrived at his father’s farmhouse three days ago. The call had come in from Control as an attempted burglary, but it wasn’t. After arriving and being met at the gate by the farmer, he led me around the side of the house and towards a dilapidated barn. It had been raining all that morning, and as I’d traipsed behind the broad-shouldered farmer, mud and animal shit had splattered over my boots and up my trousers. It had stunk.

The farmer seemed undeterred by the driving rain and mud, and stopped before the rickety barn, with rain falling over his bald head, down the length of his weather-worn face, and through the thick blond hairs which covered his meaty forearms.

“Take a look at this
,” he said, rattling a broken padlock and chain with one huge hand.

Take a look at what?
I felt like asking upon seeing the rusty, broken lock. It was so old it could have fallen to pieces of its own accord for all I knew or cared.

“Thieves, that’s what they are,” the farmer said, looking at me through the rain.

“Who are?” I asked, just wanting to be back in my patrol car and out of the cold.

“Whoever smashed this here lock and got into my barn,” he huffed at me, like I was some kind of freaking retard.

I knew what he was thinking.
Why had they sent a woman to do a man’s job
?

“Has anything been stolen?” I said, pushing open the door and peering into the barn. It was dark inside, and just like outside, it smelt of shit. I took my torch from my belt and flashed a wide beam of light around the inside of the barn. There didn’t appear to be anything of great value – not to me
, anyhow. It looked cluttered with nothing more than a bunch of rusty-looking crap like old tractor parts, tired-looking pieces of machinery, scattered bales of hay, and more animal shit.

“Nothing’s been stolen as far I can tell,” the farmer said, stepping into the barn behind me. “But that’s not the point. If it hadn’t had been for Jess scaring the thieving bastards away, they could’ve done more damage than just the broken lock.”

“Jess?” I said, cocking an eyebrow at him, and fixing my torch back on my belt.

“My German Shepard,” he said gruffly, taking me by the elbow and leading me from the barn. “The dog scared ‘em off, she did.” The farmer pulled the barn door closed behind us, then added, “I reckon it’s that vermin.”

“What vermin?” I asked, pulling the collar of my raincoat up about my throat, and tugging the peak of my cap over the bridge of my nose. Rain dripped off it in thick rivulets.

“Those travellers who have taken over old Farmer Moore’s house,” he said, his voice almost dropping to a whisper. “Nothing like this ever happened ‘til they moved in.”

“As far as I know, that family keeps themselves to themselves and doesn’t cause anyone any bother,” I told him.

“They ain‘t like any family I’ve ever seen before,” the farmer grunted, setting off back towards the house. “They look like a goddamn bunch of witches.”

“Witches?” I called after him, splashing through the rain-soaked ground. I secretly thought the name described the family quite well. I had never had any dealings with them and had only seen them from afar. They rarely ventured into the town of Cliff View, but when they did appear, all huddled together in the back of the horse-drawn cart, their complete black attire did, I guess, give them the appearance of a coven of witches. As far as I could tell or had seen, the family was led by an elderly, wizened-looking guy. There was a younger couple, maybe in their late thirties or early forties, but their faces were so pale and drawn-looking, it was hard to tell. There was a younger kid, about four or five years old - but again, it was difficult to tell, and if the truth be known, I didn’t really give a shit. The family, however odd as they might have looked, kept to themselves and had never given me or my colleagues any reason to speak with them. There hadn’t been an increase in reported crime since their arrival on the outskirts of town a few months back. Most of the burglaries, car thefts and shoplifting were the work of those shit-heads, the Day brothers, who lived on the estate on the other side of Cliff View. I had been a cop for less than twelve months, and already I had arrested both of those pimply-faced arseholes more times than I cared to remember. If the farmer’s barn had been broken into – it was more than likely to be the handiwork of the Day brothers than the family of witches who had recently moved into the area.

At the kitchen door, the farmer kicked the mud from his boots and stepped inside. I scraped the soles of my boots against a broken piece of paving outside the kitchen door, shook the rain from my coat
, and followed him into a cosy-looking kitchen. A wide, wooden table surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs filled most of the small room. The floor was made of a grey stone, and around the edges of the kitchen were an array of cupboards, shelves, and a stove. The room looked cluttered with junk, just like the barn had.

“Take a seat,” the farmer said, scooping up an armful of cups and plates from the table. He dropped them into the nearby sink, came back, and took away a pile of old newspapers. “Tea?” he asked, switching on the kettle.

“No thanks,” I said, taking my cap from my head. “I should really be getting back to the station.” I didn’t want to be off duty late, as I had plans to go clubbing with my friends.

“What about my barn door? Are you gonna go and arrest those witches?” he huffed.

“I won’t be arresting anyone right now,” I told him. “You don’t know who broke your lock and neither do I just yet.” Taking my pocket notebook out, I flipped it open. “Let me take some details.”

“Details?” the farmer asked, turning to face me with a disgruntled stare.

“I’ll need to report the criminal damage so you can get a crime number to pass onto your insurance...” I started.

“I haven’t got time to sit here all day talking to you,” he said, rubbing his huge, dirty hands together. “I’ve got work to do.”

What I suspected he really meant to say was, he was too freaking dumb to read or write.

“If you don’t want to report it then that’s fine,” I said, pushing back from the table.

“Sit back down,” the farmer grunted, flapping one of his giant hands at me. In a deep, booming voice, which seemed to rattle the windows in their frames, he shouted, “Michael! Michael! Come and speak with this police officer, will you?”

From deep within the farmhouse
, I heard the sound of heavy footfalls descending from above. I looked back at the door to see a guy of about thirty enter the kitchen. This guy was stocky, with a well-built body. I could have practically climbed the humpty-bumps of his six-pack, which were plainly visible beneath the tight white T-Shirt he was wearing. I didn’t know what relation he was to the farmer, but knowing my luck, it was probably his younger gay lover.  

“This here is my son,” the farmer said. “He’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

I looked at the farmer then back at his son. Other than the muscular forearms, there was no other similarity, thank Christ. Unlike the other guys I had fooled about with in the past, Michael was older and had an air of confidence – maturity – which the others hadn’t always had. He had unruly, curly black hair, which draped across his brow and around his neck like a bunch of springs. He was unshaven, but not so much that he had a beard – just a shadow of black bristles – and I couldn’t help but get a tingling sensation as I quickly imagined what they would feel like against my skin. His eyes were a pale green, and his complexion was bright and ruddy, I guessed due to all the hours spent working the fields in bad weather. He wore a pair of scruffy jeans, and his feet were bare. He knew I was looking at him with more than a casual stare. I looked away, not before I saw his eyes twinkle mischievously back at me.