It was a drab morning, certainly. There was a gray, deep fog about the city streets, so opaque that no soul could have seen the cobblestone beneath their feet. The buildings were pressed close to each other, with the occasional alleyway between them, and the shops were illuminated by the flickering of candles that were sat in the display windows. The only guides along the narrow street were situated periodic lamp posts that had to be reignited every three hours. A beautiful morning indeed, thought Carolyn as she awoke to a new day: her birthday, to be precise. The sky was immaculately cloudy, blocking out the harsh rays of the sun, and quite possibly promising a light rain – she would have no need to take her umbrella on her daily walk after all, as her pale skin would not be burnt by the sun. How perfectly delightful it was. Squinting, she sat up, and slowly looked about, attempting to discern any differences concerning herself, her room, or how she saw things.

Today she was thirteen, and, this being a special day, she thought something special might have happened. She looked to the mirror on her dress stand, and observed herself. The same thin, pale, ghostly features stared at her with green eyes, and her face was framed with the same long, messy brown hair. No change yet. After dressing herself in a black, red hemmed frock and pulling her disorderly hair in to a bind, she walked downstairs (avoiding the fifth step, for it creaked) to the main story of their house. “Father” Carolyn’s sweet, innocent voice rang out, causing a man to jump in his seat. He was hunched over an obituary that rested upon a dark oak wood desk. He was a young gentleman, with short brown hair, green eyes, and a handlebar mustache. He responded to her presence in his tranquil voice with, “Oh, hello, Carolyn… Happy birthday, my darling, I was just keeping with the times.” He paused for a few moments, turned about, and came back to face her, with a slightly drawn look. “Regrettably, our business has been quite lethargic as of late, as you might be able to see from the length of this obituary.” He held up the short list of names for her to examine. “And that means that, as much as it breaks my heart, we must postpone the purchase of your... companion, for quite some time.” The charming look that graced her childlike face turned to one of sour disappointment and disdain in a matter of seconds. “I see.” Her stony reply cut the silence of the room, and the heavy air was suddenly thick and palpable. “Then, if you will excuse me, father, I will visit the bakery and shops, and walk about town. It is a fine day, and I would rather not waste it in this place.” He nodded in discomfited approval, and allowed her to walk to the door, opening it and causing the bell near the top of the doorframe to chime.  She marched out, very nearly knocking over the wooden sign that read “Mortician.”

The next few minutes were overflowing with a seething silence as Carolyn plotted. “Why, of all times, did business have to be bad now? Right when she was so close… But such is life. One must make their own business, I suppose.” She smiled. She was a decisive child to be sure, as she was capable of making decisions that would achieve her goals in a hasty fashion, though the consequences of her actions were yet to be thought of. As long as she was effectively devious, she would be fine. Once her mind was made up on the matter, Carolyn set out for the small shop at the corner of the street. Using some of the money she had amassed over the years, she bought a small woven basket, and a cotton cloth to cover it. She then exited the shop, and walked a ways to the herbalist who sold various questionable plants, earning him a hint of suspicion from the townspeople. Smiling, she entered the dark, musty shop and immediately walked over to the fungus section, and picked up a jar that read “Death Cap”. She knew it was deadly, but gave off a delicious smell and taste. That in itself would have betrayed its presence to any discerning nose, so she returned the jar to its shelf and walked a meter to the right and picked up one of the jars of dried Death Cap. Once she had made her selection, Carolyn handed the herbalist the jar. He had long, bony fingers that wrapped all the way around the jar with a popping sound, and is gaunt eyes stared down at her from his unnatural height. Under his thin mustache, his lips slowly peeled back in to an uneven and knowing smile. “Back again, Ms.Quincy? Heh… Don’t be eating that, now.” His sardonic tone made her laugh slightly; for they acknowledged that she was fully educated and competent when putting to use the poisons and deadly plants he sold. “The investment will be worth it,” Carolyn muttered as she simultaneously emptied the contents of the jar into the basket leaving the jar in the herbalist’s shop for reuse, (causing the price to go down by a third) and left for her room. There, she fashioned herself a mask from an old scarf, and dumped the mushroom on to a place, where she ground the dried mushroom in to a fine powder. Careful not to breathe the dust, she emptied the dust in to a small glass jar that had been sitting on her desk, awaiting it’s use.

Now that things were this far along, the next problem for Carolyn was how to extend the poison over a large area where it would be potent enough to kill as many people as possible. Water would dilute the poison significantly, and spreading it through food would use too much of it, and only eradicate a handful of people. What she needed was a sizeable death count, for which about ten people at the least would do. Now, this deed would be simple, as not a soul would dare to think that a docile girl such as Carolyn would commit such an abhorrent crime. Who to administer the poison to however, happened to be the testing query, as the town held few beings that she disliked. Eventually, she let out a light sigh, and frivolously supposed to herself: “Ah well, gain demands sacrifice.” A list of people came to her mind’s eye, and she rapidly recorded the names. “The baker: no, he was kind, and baked delicious breads. The local constable: yes, not for retribution or dislike, but for protective purposes. She couldn’t very well end up in a cell. The milkman: possibly, for he had kicked her friend, the dark gray tabby cat that lived down the road. The Enfields: most definitely the eldest son and their drunkard of a father; after all, they were the local bullies and were well known for it.” The list of names and thoughts carried on for nearly an hour, until her ten victims were selected, and their designated assassinations were planned.

She had determined that Mr. Enfield and his son ought to be her starting targets, and soon began to carry out her plans. Carolyn walked to the liquor store Mr. Enfield drank behind every day. He and his son were out in the woods for a smoke, and would not be back for another five minutes, but they had conveniently left their drinks on the old, wooden crate next to the back door.  Carolyn took out a pinch of the powder hidden in her pocket, sprinkled it in his mug, and did the same to his boy’s pint. The powder dissolved almost instantly, promising severe nausea, indigestion, and eventual death. The process of murder was a lengthy and arduous one, though it was rewarding. She laughed at that thought, and returned home where her father greeted her, and then said, ever so cautiously, “You’re rather cheery now, Carolyn. What have you been up to?” Her response was that of a smooth liar, as she quipped: “Just out to see the town on my birthday.” She hurried up the wooden stairs, and in-to her room where she anxiously sat, awaiting the rumors, shivering in anticipation.

The next day was a horribly sunny day, and was fueled by apprehension as reports came like a bolt of lightning. The news spread quickly through the small town, and was both terrifying and exhilarating when it reached Carolyn’s small ears. Someone… Someone had been killed, yes, but someone…. Someone knew she had done it. Someone said through witchcraft. It was to be expected that such an illogical conclusion would be reached, as the town knew nothing of herbs – other than the remedial ones – and were, at this point in time, overly paranoid. Her excitement for rumor faded as she realized that now they, the town, had surrounded her house with the constable at the head of the mob – she knew she should have taken care of him first, and realized that her judgment was clouded by dislike for the Enfield men – to the right, the crowd was being riled by Mrs. Enfield, with red eyes, was staring up at her window, shouting “witch”. The chant was taken up by the rest of the townspeople, overpowering her father’s voice who was desperately struggling in a verbal confrontation against them.

The crowd grew increasingly uneasy, and eventually, they pushed her father forcefully out of the way, and hastened up the stairs, invading her room and seizing her. After a great amount of time, the Mayor exclaimed, holding up the jar of Death Cap powder and the list of victims from the floorboards. The Enfield’s name was crossed off, causing him to gasp, and turn to stare at her with hooded, incredulous eyes. Carolyn watched things happen in sullen silence, like a child who has been caught with their hand in a cookie jar. The people in her room crowded the mayor, and soon a voice rose above the rest. “I was next!” One of the angry men shouted after examining the list.

They dragged her into the blinding light of the sun for her to watch as they threw logs and branches into a pile. She watched her feet lift off of the green earth, and into the air, then down on to the heavy wooden stack. She watched the rope pass in front of her small, frail body, and felt it tighten around her arms and stomach, pressing her back firmly against the tall pole in the center of the wood pile. She watched the crowd from her platform, looking down on their faces. None stood out among the mixture of uneasy and angry expressions as the charges against her were read; charges of planned murder, and charges of her plans to murder more… And charges of witchcraft. No face stood out but one: a long, thin, bony face with eyes sunken deep in their sockets, and a lopsided mustache that rested above a contorted smile. A long, lean finger rose and tapped his temple – she could almost hear the creaking of his joints. His presence was that of an older brother who had beaten their younger sibling at a game of checkers: not victorious, but amused at the effort. “I told you not to eat it... It’ll kill you,” he mouthed to her, his crooked smile widened. Her only response was a sheepish smile and a small, sweet laugh as the torches were thrown at her feet.