The smell of sawdust and cold metal always turned Eliza's stomach, a familiar pang that transported her to her father's workshop.
There, amidst the earthy scent of wood and the harshness of iron, Caleb Rowen forged not only tools, but also a dark obsession that spread like a shadow throughout the house.
Today, however, a more penetrating odor joined the mix: acrid, almost metallic, with a subtle undertone of damp earth and something disturbingly visceral, stopping her short in the doorway.
Her father stood before a sturdy table, the dim light from the fogged window highlighting the relief of his calloused hands as he manipulated a twisted root. Its branches looked like bony fingers clutching at nothing, and its surface gleamed with a strange oily iridescence under the dim light, sowing a growing unease in Eliza.
"What are you doing, Father?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper in the dense air, thick with his concentration and the nauseating smell.
Caleb startled, dropping the root with a dry thud that echoed in the workshop's silence. Turning, his gray eyes gleamed with a feverish intensity, his jaw tight, revealing signs of his eternal crusade.
"Eliza. I didn't hear you arrive," he replied sharply, more an accusation than genuine surprise. "I am preparing… defenses."
The word resonated with an ominous weight. Since her childhood, Eliza's life had been intertwined with her father's obsession with witches, an enemy invisible to her. Not the village elders with their herbal remedies, nor the solitary women who gathered in the forest. For Caleb, they were a malignant plague, beings with greenish skin (a grotesque image Eliza couldn't reconcile with her neighbors) and dark powers, intent on the ruin of Oakhaven.
Eliza had never seen such a witch. Her nineteen years in the quiet village, nestled between wooded hills and the winding creek, had only offered whispers and legends, fueled by the pastor's passionate sermons and her father's somber nighttime tales: moonlit covens, blasphemous pacts at forgotten crossroads, and magic that withered crops and maddened animals.
Her mother, who died of a sudden fever when Eliza was a child, had always avoided the subject. Eliza remembered her gentle smile like moonlight reflected on water, and her delicate hands, more accustomed to the wildflowers in the meadow than her husband's sharp hunting knife.Sometimes, in fleeting dreams, she recalled a sweet, earthy fragrance, of herbs and damp soil, so different from the pungent smell of the workshop.
"What kind of defenses?" Eliza insisted, fighting against the growing oppression in her chest. The air felt heavy, almost tangible.
Caleb lifted the root, his rough fingers tracing its deformities with an almost religious devotion. "Against their magic, daughter. Their deceptions. They are cunning, Eliza… they camouflage themselves among us, but they will not evade the protections of a righteous man who watches over his community."
A shiver ran down Eliza's spine, despite the late summer heat. The intensity in her father's eyes always made her uncomfortable, making her feel examined and judged. Sometimes, she glimpsed a dark fanaticism that consumed him.
"Has something in particular happened?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "Has anyone… been feeling unwell lately?"
"The signs are there," Caleb murmured, absorbed in his work. "Small things… a milk cow that dries up for no reason, the thinnest wheat harvest in memory, nightmares that trouble people's sleep… the corrupting influence always begins like this, like a silent weed."
Eliza frowned, feeling that her father interpreted every setback as evidence of witchcraft, ignoring the real hardships of rural life.
"Father, perhaps it's just… the difficulties of life, bad harvests happen," she dared to say, a small spark of defiance in her voice.
Caleb's gaze hardened, as if Eliza had uttered a heresy. "Naive. You always have been. They hide in plain sight, Eliza. Women spinning by the fire, men plowing the fields, children playing in the street… outwardly they seem like ordinary folk, but inside they harbor darkness."
A more intense chill froze Eliza's blood. Did he include her, in some dark corner of his mind, in that general condemnation? Sometimes, in the solitude of her attic room, she felt a strange pang, a surge of something different from everyday joy or sadness, like a latent energy beneath her skin. She had kept it hidden, fearing his relentless reaction.
"Be careful, Father," Eliza said with a knot in her throat. "Don't accuse lightly. Fear can cloud judgment."
Caleb let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Fear? No, daughter. Caution. There is no innocent witch, Eliza. Sooner or later, they all reveal their true nature. And you too… keep your eyes open. Evil can disguise itself as the most familiar."
Eliza turned, escaping the workshop, the pungent smell, and the somber words that echoed in her mind. The cool evening air did little to dispel the oppression. The shadow of the hunter stretched out, and a cold unease settled within her, the silent certainty that her world was about to shatter.