The Ashen Orchard

September 12, 2026

by Matteo

4 min read

Story Premise 4 min read (626 words)

"The leaf-strewn path wound through the old apple orchard, the trees gnarled and blackened with age, their branches scratching at the gray October sky. I had arranged to meet a witch here, at this remote spot where the city’s noise faded to a distant hum. A lone picnic table stood among the trees, its wooden […]"

The leaf-strewn path wound through the old apple orchard, the trees gnarled and blackened with age, their branches scratching at the gray October sky. I had arranged to meet a witch here, at this remote spot where the city’s noise faded to a distant hum. A lone picnic table stood among the trees, its wooden surface weathered and cracked. I sat on the bench, my breath visible in the chill air, and waited.

There was a rustle in the undergrowth, and a crow took flight from a nearby branch. From the tangled shadows between the trees, a figure emerged. She was cloaked in a deep, midnight blue dress that seemed to absorb the light, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. She walked with a quiet confidence, her eyes fixed on me. As she drew closer, she smiled, revealing teeth that seemed too white.

‘You must be the journalist,’ she said, her voice like dry leaves rubbing together. ‘I am Margery.’ She gestured to the picnic table. ‘Shall we?’

I nodded, and we sat across from each other. I placed my recorder on the table, but Margery’s gaze was fixed on the orchard around us. ‘I’ve lived here for decades,’ she said, ‘in a cottage just beyond that ridge. The orchard has always been a source of power, but it’s been dying for years. That’s why I called you here.’

She leaned forward, her eyes glinting. ‘I’ve been a practitioner of the old craft since I was a girl, but I’m not interested in the fluffy Wicca you read about. My circle, the Ashen Circle, we follow the older ways, the bloodier ones. We meet every Samhain, and this year, we’re going to do something special.’

I asked what she meant, and she pointed to a gnarled tree in the center of the orchard. ‘That tree has been dead for a century, but it still holds a seed of life. Our ritual will awaken it, but it requires a sacrifice—not a goat, but something more personal.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘What kind of sacrifice?’ I asked.

Margery smiled, her lips curling. ‘Our circle believes in balance. To give life, we must take life. And what better sacrifice than the one who documents our existence? You see, you are not just here to interview me. You are a part of the ritual.’ I instinctively glanced around, but we were alone. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘it’s not what you think. We don’t kill. We take memories, emotions, the essence of a soul. When you leave, you will remember nothing of this encounter. And the tree will bloom again.’

I shook my head, standing up. ‘I think I should go.’ But Margery was faster. She whispered a word in a language I didn’t recognize, and the world around me seemed to shimmer. The orchard blurred, the colors bled like watercolors. I felt a pressure in my mind, a pulling at my thoughts. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

When I woke, I was sitting alone at the picnic table, the recorder in my hand, the batteries dead. The orchard was silent, the leaves undisturbed. I had no memory of what transpired, only a strange feeling of loss, a hollow ache where something important used to be. I stood up, and as I turned to leave, I saw a single blossom on the dead tree, a brilliant red flower against the monochrome branches. I reached out to touch it, and it crumbled to ash in my fingers, the wind carrying it away into the approaching night.

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