This wouldn't be the first time Billy told his story about the Witch of the Mists. Perhaps, it all started the day he found out his scout troop would be spending a weekend camping at the Great Smokey Mountains. The idea that there was some long forgotten evil lurking among the ridges and preying upon unsuspecting travelers wedged itself in his mind, and despite his best attempts, it would not go away.
Over the succeeding weeks his every waking thought that wasn't spent eating, studying, or clowning with his friends was busy refining the details of the tale. Some of the ideas where utterly stupid, one was a blatant rip off of that werewolf movie he saw last month, and then there were a few rabbit holes his brain couldn't help surveying that had nothing to do with the actually goings on of the story he intended to tell, but were good to know anyway. Items like what exactly caused to Witch to hunger for fresh souls.
He told his friends tidbits as they came to him…until a strong punch in the arm from John let him know that maybe they really were more interested in talking about Sally's short skirt than some fabled wrinkled up old prune. Yet, while Sally's chosen attire DID arouse his attention, especially when she bent over, he couldn't get over the image of a gnarled hand reaching for him from out of a cloudy void.
At night, when it was quiet, he wordlessly mouthed the story in bed. He thought once or twice about writing it down, but no, this needed to be told. Words on a page couldn’t convey the Witch's whisper quiet voice that shrieked randomly on an odd syllable. Besides, every time he told himself the story it not only changed slightly, but got better. He could, also, now do the Witch's voice without even thinking about it.
Unfortunately, that wasn't good enough. What did it matter that HE and he alone knew the tale of the old crone that lurked deep in the mountains? He swore that Satan's Mistress herself once visited his dreams and told him that if he didn't tell somebody her story, she'd rip his soul out the moment he stepped foot on HER mountains. Perhaps instinctively he knew not to tell his mother. No matter what he said, she'd say it was great before proceeding with whatever was required to keep them clothed and fed. His father wasn’t one to mince words to save his ego…if he even used words. Usually a short grunt meant "good" and a long low grunt meant "bad." Neither parent would do. Consequently, his kid sister, Betsy, was the first.
Billy was surprised she listened to the entire thing. For sure, she'd get bored and wander off to do some girly thing that she miraculously found less boring than watching paint dry. But, she sat and listened attentively. Indeed, the longer and longer he spoke the wider and wider her eyes got while she clutched her stuffed dolphin, Clyde, tighter and tighter.
That night his sister inexplicably screamed in her sleep and demanded to spend the rest of the night in their parent's bed. In the morning, he could tell that his mother was furious. She tasked his father to mete out a punishment. His old man worked hard not to laugh when he described how scared his sister was, but Billy received the directive loud and clear—no more scary stories for Betsy.
Eventually the fated weekend came. The Smokey Mountains were living up to their reputation. The air was thick with dense fog. Thankfully, the troop found the campsite easily enough, and then began a long hike. Billy's father was among the troop leaders. The adults were getting increasing annoyed that the boys weren't paying the slightest attention to anything they were saying about the nature all around them. Billy didn't join in his peer’s mindless conversation. He did randomly look in different directions and before intently staring at nothing, though.
"Hey, Billy what's up," Big Mike asked, the teen could probably powerslam half the fathers on the trip.
"Nothing, nothing," Billy said nervously. He stopped suddenly then shot his head a direction "What was that," he hissed.
"What was what?" Joseph asked, pulling away from the conversation of the upcoming hockey season long enough to notice something else was going on.
Billy shook his head. "Nothing it's nothing, just had a feeling of being watched...ya know."
"Yeah, whatever," Joseph replied, before returning to talking about hockey.
But while they walked Billy continued to look around himself nervously. Most of the boys noticed, a few scoffed under their breaths. His father gave him a long glance, though. When Billy noticed he smiled, which made his father smirk.
It was night when the troop returned to camp. A fire was crackling after only a few minutes. S'mores were passed around soon after that. Billy waited until everyone was comfortable around the fire. Then he said softly, "does anyone want to hear a story?"
No one really made a reply, but there were no "noes" either. He began slowly. A first no one was really paying attention. That changed, however, when he decided to introduce a new character on the fly...Stacy, who for whatever reason loved wearing short skirts. It was then he realized that what interested his kid sister was different than a group of teenage boys on a camping trip, but not completely. When the first unfortunate hiker's soul was taken all side conversation ended, even some of the fathers were paying attention to him now. The gory details that made Betsy cringe uncomfortably produced wry smiles, which sharply fell away when the Witch of the Mist fileted the hikers who would shut up about the upcoming baseball season—they might have escaped her notice if they were quiet.
When it was over, Billy noticed that Gordon hadn't taken a single bite of his s'more the entire time. His fingers were covered in melted chocolate.
"Great story," Mike said.
"At least it passed the time," Joseph replied dismissively before starting up another conversation about hockey.
Eventually, the troop leaders announced that it was time to sack out. Billy went to his tent and sighed contentedly. It was gone. He had told the story of the Witch of the Mists and finally, at last, his mind was free to think about anything else. He had to work to even remember the tale.
"Dad, what's the next trip going to be?" he asked as his father got comfortable in his sleeping bag next to him.
"Offshore fishing."
Billy nodded and thought nothing of it. The next day there was a difference in the troop as they hiked. A few of the boys glanced anxiously in the mist as they walked. All of them were quiet, even Joseph. Big Mike asked Billy about the story, he clearly wanted more, but Billy found it hard to concentrate. His mind was preoccupied with something else.
The ride home was pretty quiet. His father might have grunted once or twice. It was late when they finally arrived. His mother was already asleep as was surely Betsy. However, when he went to turn his light off, he turned to see her in his doorway, Clyde tucked under her arm.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Can't sleep," she eventually said. Billy wondered what exactly he was supposed to do about that, but he noticed that it seemed like she wanted to say something else. He raised an eyebrow.
"Can you tell me another scary story?" she eked out, guiltily.
Billy reflected that mom was furious that Betsy fled to her bed after a big brother induced nightmare, but Betsy hadn’t complained about it. He smiled. He didn't know if there'd be hell to pay in the morning, but he didn't care.
"Sure. Have you heard of the Beast that lurks beneath the Depths?"
