THE MIDNIGHT STONES

They called her witch before the stones ever fell.
Betty — too prayerful,
too quiet,
her children too clean for their liking.

GBAM! GBAM! GBAM!
Every midnight.
Heavy fists from the dark,
throwing rage upon her zinc.

Candle trembling in her hand,
voice trembling in prayer,
while her family folded themselves under blankets,
and the roof wept above them.

Then came the morning of the white chicken.My Prompt/AI Image

She opened her door and froze.
There — in her swept yard,
a white chicken.
Dead.
Neck twisted to its back.
Blood fresh, splashed on earth, on wall, on bucket.

No footprints.
No hole in the fence.
No way in. No way out.Actual Photo

She screamed.

She ran to the only soul who still spoke to her —
the young man with sleepless, red eyes.

Before she could speak, he whispered,
"Blood was on my door this morning."

That week, the street held its breath.
No greetings. No hellos. Just eyes.

Then the young man fell sick.
Two weeks — he could not stand.
Could not eat.
Skin became cloth over bone.
Eyes sank deep.

And strangely...
the stones stopped.

Only Betty still fetched water for him in the rain.
He thanked her in a voice that was not his.

One night he said,
"I must return to the village.
Something is holding me.
I need a cure."

Betty watched his shadow thin into the road.My Prompt/AI Image

Weeks later, news came on the wind:
He Died.

That evening, the street circled Betty's house like vultures.

"You killed him!"

"I fetched water for him!" she cried,
"I prayed for him!"

No ears heard her.

That night, midnight sharp —
GBAM! GBAM! GBAM!

She ran out with her candle, shaking.

They were falling — not on every roof,
but on hers.
The one whose mouth was loudest
to name Betty a witch.

Thank you for sticking till the end😊