On her bed laid a ruffled dress her mother sewed years ago. A pair of leather boots rested on the wooden floor, resting by a chair. By this point, her mother would count down from ten in hopes Ginevra would clean up her room, with both hands rested on her hips. But no one was there. She saw torch lights marching towards the house off into the distance, making her frantically start changing.
Ginevra recalled overhearing a conversation two sisters had about a nearby town during their morning stroll. They mentioned how it was larger and less scandalous than here, with only an old, broken down bridge separating both towns; with the shortest route being to go through a forest located at the top of the tallest hill, known as L’antro Della Strega. A spot the church prohibited everyone from entering, only made clear by the guards—considered God’s helpers— who never dared to enter that place.
Curiosity about the forest lingered in the depths of her imagination. Her temptation slowly brewed inside her heart, aching to know what resided there and holding on to every short comment her mother made about whispering ghosts and strange plants that can not be found elsewhere. The thought of exploring the woods with her mother crossed her mind multiple times, but knew she would object to such an idea.
Well, there was no one to stop her from heading there now, it was only a matter of not getting caught by her people. She took small steps, giving each doll a final farewell while gently patting their head; her hand stopped trembling once her eyes laid upon her favorite doll. It was one with long, white-blonde hair and a perfectly ordained white dress which her late father bought for her eleventh birthday. Ginevra picked up the doll. Might as well take it with me.
Without overthinking, Ginevra grabbed the doll and pushed the bedroom door wide open; sprinting down both sets of stairs, quickly glancing at the family photos. Some included her and her parents, while some included other relatives of the Agnello family. Including those she never met.
She reached the kitchen, which she considered having a life of its own with each jar containing its respective spice. Pans dangled off the walls, ready for her mother to take down and start cooking delicious, warm meals. Each cabinet above was a little world contained in one spot. Always making her feel like she found treasure after finding the ladder her father hid countless times to keep her from getting too many snacks. Her heart ached, not wanting to leave, but knew the townsfolk’s anger would not cease until the last descendant of the Agnellos was gone. The feeling of fire burning away at her mother’s skin and flesh, down to her bones, disturbed Ginevra enough to want to flee towards the woods.
After checking through the window to confirm no one stood in front of the door, she slowly opens it and runs off into the night. It was better than burning alive due to misconceptions.
***
Stars sparkled against the darkness which enveloped the world; the moon offered a touch of its nocturnal light. Tall grass poked the soles of her boots as she sprinted, stomping it alongside a couple tiny, white flowers without mercy. The winds gently brushed against her face, but could not push away the memories of that evening. Her mind was still plagued with visions of folks repeatedly chanting “burn the witch!” as her mother cried out in agony, unable to free herself from the wooden stake she got tied up to. The sense of helplessness Ginevra felt now haunted her wherever she went.
From where she stood, the town now resembled a small spark of fire, either commencing or near its end. Her eyes welled with tears, slowing down as the burning sensation overcame her face, hugging her doll tighter than ever. She did not understand why everyone immediately turned against her family when their ancestors helped the town survive through the epidemic. It shocked her how peoples’ being could change so drastically. Her father would tell her how there are people in this world who do bad deeds in the name of God, and it never mattered as they could always ask for his forgiveness.
Ginevra snickered at the thought of hundreds of people lining up at the church’s entrance, waiting to get in the confessional. The sight of a bewildered priest crossed her mind. Sadly, it would not happen, as everything was done in the name of God.
Her body burned, sweat dripped down her face and both legs ached with each step. Yet she continued, pushing through this discomfort until she reached the bottom of the tall hill, eyeing the so-called witch’s lair.