Rachel Burge, one of the most infamous witches in history, is often called upon in tales of witchcraft and sorcery. Her chilling reputation and powerful abilities make her a compelling figure to study and explore. Born in the early 17th century, Burge was known for her dark powers and sinister practices. It is said that she could control the weather, communicate with spirits, and cast potent spells. Many believed that she had made a pact with the devil himself, granting her unnatural abilities and an unholy presence. Burge's name often arises when discussing the occult and the supernatural.
The Twisted Tree:
Some writers depict him as a lecherous old man who relentlessly tried to seduce a young woman, while others portray him as a victim who is tricked into falling for a woman who then uses his magic against him. We re all programmed to be strong and expressing our pain perhaps with the help of a therapist or healer can be incredibly difficult, but also powerfully transformative.
Burge's name often arises when discussing the occult and the supernatural. Her story has captured the imagination of many, fueling legends and folklore. She is often depicted as a wicked figure, lurking in the shadows and using her powers for nefarious purposes.
Calling forth the witch Rachel Burge
‘Yes, she was trying to keep me safe. She had no choice.’
‘And you think what? That you saw one of these witches last night?’
‘Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.’
He stares at me round-eyed, a sceptical look on his face, but I can’t stop now. The words I’ve been holding back tumble out of me. ‘I know it’s hard to believe but I’ve seen things, Tom. Just before the woman with the trolley attacked me, I saw a swirl of dark shadow on the ground. It passed over her face and she changed; it was like she was possessed. And the guy in the anorak, he kept staring at me and …’
Tom stands up and raises his hands. ‘I’m sorry but whatever you think you saw, you didn’t. You can’t have. Your mum has been putting ideas in your head, trying to make you believe in demons and witches – scratching at the door and sneaking around in the night. She’s messing with your mind, can’t you see that?’
I think about the vision I had and the girl I saw in the mirror last night. I don’t know how it’s connected to all of this, but it has to be. ‘It’s not just that. Something is happening to me. I don’t feel like myself, I …’ My voice cracks and I stop speaking, afraid of what I might say next.
‘Then get the boat back with me.’
We stare at one another and I want to tell him there’s no use leaving the island – the shadows found me on the mainland before and they will again. But I don’t because I know what he’d say. My mum isn’t the only one who needs help.
Tom puts his hands on his hips. ‘David is leaving in less than two hours. Are you still coming to speak to him, or –’
I grab my bag and avoid his gaze as he gathers up his stuff. I wish I hadn’t told him anything now. Of course he wasn’t going to believe me.
When we get downstairs, my mum is standing at the kitchen stove. She wears a cheerful floral apron and her hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail. She smiles and waves a wooden spoon in our direction.
‘I’m doing scrambled eggs on toast. Hope that’s OK.’
I pull out a chair and a rush of sadness fills me. This is what I should have had: a mum, a childhood, a home.
We sit down and Tom eyes her suspiciously, as if he’s expecting her to scramble his eggs in a cauldron. After a few minutes, she places two plates of food on the table. Her fingers brush mine as I take my plate and she looks at me and smiles. I wish now that I hadn’t gone to bed so early last night. There are so many things I want to know about her and my family, but with all the talk of witches, I didn’t get to ask.
We eat in silence, Tom leaving his eggs untouched and munching on the toast. We’re almost finished when she turns from doing the washing-up.
Before I can answer, Tom replies. ‘Actually, we heard a noise in the night.’
Her smile fades, replaced with a frown. ‘Oh.’
I glare warningly at Tom but he keeps speaking. ‘Ivy saw someone on the landing.’
‘What?’ She steps towards me and searches my face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
The panic in her voice makes my throat constrict. I lower my fork, the eggs congealing in my stomach. ‘I only caught a glimpse. I thought it was you.’
She turns and leans over the sink, her bony shoulders slumped. ‘This can’t be happening,’ she wails.
I stand and go over to her. ‘Mum?’
She takes a few steps in one direction and then turns back, her hands fluttering at the knot of her apron. ‘I’ve kept them out all these years!’ She pulls at the cord, making it tighter instead of loosening it. ‘Are you sure you saw someone?’
‘Yes. There was a woman. I saw her long hair.’
My mum lets out a strangled sob. ‘If they’re in the house, then my protection spells have stopped working. I have to close the portal.’
Tom almost chokes. ‘The what now?’
She turns on him, her voice strained with impatience. ‘The lighthouse is how the witches come through to our world.’ She looks at me and adds, ‘I can try to close it, but it will be risky. I can’t be sure what will happen, and if it goes wrong … I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but if they’re in the house I have no choice.’
‘Where do these witches come from exactly?’ asks Tom.
She paces back and forth, tugging at the apron before finally ripping it off. I know what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth because I’ve seen it.
‘Avalon – it’s where Morgan le Fay took King Arthur after he died. There’s a reason why twenty thousand saints chose to be buried on the island – they could sense the energy of the other world leaking through to ours. The lighthouse is a gateway between dimensions. That’s why the birds keep crashing into it. I have to prepare, there’s so much to prepare.’
She rushes to the wooden dresser and opens the large cupboard drawers at the bottom. I watch her pull out a box of black candles and then her head and shoulders disappear inside as she searches for something at the back. Tom leans across the table and whispers, ‘A portal to Avalon?’
Ignoring his pointed looks, I call to my mum.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
She reappears from the cupboard, banging her head. ‘No, and I want you to stay away from the lighthouse. You mustn’t go near there once I start the ritual, no matter what you see or hear.’
Tom pinches the bridge of his nose as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘Sorry, but I’m going.’ He pushes back his chair and picks up his things. ‘I don’t know how long it will take to walk to the harbour and I don’t want to be late. Are you coming?’
My mum is on her knees, frantically sorting through jars of incense.
She doesn’t answer and I raise my voice. ‘Tom’s leaving now. I was going to walk with him to the harbour and then come back.’
She scrambles to her feet and rushes past me, muttering something about needing to find a book. I’ve no idea what ‘closing the portal’ involves, but I’m not letting her do it alone if it’s going to be dangerous. I follow her into the hallway and call out as she runs up the stairs. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
She clutches the banister and hangs her head. ‘No, it’s better if you go. I need to start the ritual as soon as it gets dark. There’s a lot to prepare, I need to concentrate.’ She hurries off to her bedroom and I stare at the floor, my shoulders slumped. I was hoping we could spend some time together and get to know each other properly, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. Maybe I should just let her get on with things. I’ll easily be back before nightfall.
Tom appears and hands me my bag. ‘You OK, Shorty?’
The pity in his eyes makes me want to crumple. ‘Yeah, just give me a minute.’
I dive into the bathroom, taking a moment to splash my face with cold water before joining him in the hallway. He shifts his weight impatiently as I open the front door. The world outside has been obliterated, the surrounding buildings hidden by a thick white mist. We step into the chilly vapour and I crane my neck upwards. The tower is obscured by fog, the lantern the only thing visible: a floating glass eye with a Cyclops stare.
Tom readjusts the bags on his shoulder and sets a brisk pace, seemingly keen to put the place behind him. The sun is feeble and bloated above us, a poached egg hanging in a milk-white sky. Apart from the distant crash of waves, it’s eerily quiet. No gulls crying and wheeling overhead and no wind tugging at our clothes and battering our ears. The mist has thrown a heavy blanket over everything, dampening the colours and sounds. It sits on my lungs and gets in my hair, the saltwater so thick I can taste it.
I look towards the sea, hoping to get my bearings, but there’s no line to mark the horizon, just a vague blur where one band of pale blue merges into another. Not being able to see the cliff edge is unnerving and I’m glad we have the track to follow. After ten minutes or so, Tom points up ahead. ‘Is that the village?’
I squint, but I can’t see anything apart from the outline of the mountain in the distance.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come back with me?’ he asks.
‘I can’t leave her, Tom, not when she’s like this.’
He nods and I’m relieved when he doesn’t push the issue. He takes a moment then asks, ‘Do you want me to let anyone know you’re here? If you give me their number, I can call your foster parents or whoever once I get back to the mainland.’
He’s right. I should let them know where I am; I don’t want them to worry about me. At the same time, I can’t risk them coming out here. Jim and Richard want the best for me, but they’re not going to believe the things I’ve seen. No one would.
‘Can you tell them I’m staying with a friend and I’ve lost my phone?’
‘I guess. I mean, I can if you want, but someone ought to know you’re here. There must be someone you can tell, a friend of the family, a mate, or –’
‘No,’ I snap. ‘There’s no one.’
He looks at me in surprise and a huff escapes me. I know he’s fallen out with his parents because they won’t give him money for his venture, but they’re still paying for him to go to university, they still care. It’s not his fault he’s privileged, but at the same time not everyone grows up with people who are there for them. I don’t have sisters who can help me out in a crisis, or an uncle who can give me a job, or mates who’ll let me sleep on their sofa.
‘You’re telling me you don’t have a single friend?’ he asks.
He goes quiet as if considering this, and then says, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’ He says it like he actually means it and I feel bad for snapping at him. He doesn’t know about Katie and what happened in the care home – how could he?
The silence grows between us, filled only by the distant crash of waves. Eventually the shape of a building emerges from the fog – the schoolhouse or church maybe, it’s hard to tell. We walk towards it when we see something that makes us stop. A group of dark shapes stands further along the track: half a dozen or so people gathered together. They are oddly still, some of them leaning towards one another as if in conversation.
‘I thought the island was deserted,’ says Tom.
His voice is frayed with uncertainty, but it’s nothing compared to the rope of anxiety twisting in my gut. The mist is too thick for me to see how many there are, but what if there are eight of them? Could they be the witches? I slow my pace and Tom strides ahead.
‘Christ. For a minute I thought …’
I catch up with him and realise what he means. The figures are tall gravestones. What I thought were human heads are the bulbous tops of Celtic crosses and what seemed like figures are their upright bases. A loud cackle cuts through the quiet, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. The noise comes again, followed by a guttural grunting. Tom pauses and searches the sky.
‘Cormorants,’ I say.
‘Big black seabirds – we saw them on the crossing yesterday.’
He looks doubtful, but then I guess he was too busy trying to keep his lunch down to pay much attention to the wildlife. Another cackle cuts through the air, this time even closer. Several fly overhead in a group, their long thin legs hanging behind them, their immense wings outspread. Black hags, the boatman called them. I know they’re meant to be an ill omen, but to me they’re magnificent: wild, otherworldly creatures. Seeing them sends a thrill of excitement through me, but when I look again they’ve gone, vanished into the mist.
We continue along the path and the empty holiday cottages loom up next to us, their dark windows like sunken eye sockets. We pass by them and then the disused schoolhouse, stopping when we come to David’s farmhouse. The quad bike and trailer are parked outside but there’s no sign of life, not even the lonely bleat of a sheep. Tom jumps over the low slate wall and knocks at the door. When no one answers, he glances at me nervously.
‘He’s probably down at the harbour,’ I say.
He smiles briefly, as if embarrassed about being worried, and then heads down the path. Even if the boatman was expecting us to stay here for longer, surely he wouldn’t have gone earlier than he said? Tom walks off in the direction of the bay, and I hurry to keep up with him. By the time we reach the top of the hill, he’s a dozen paces ahead.
The track drops sharply away beneath me and I look down, expecting to see the crescent-shaped beach, but there’s only swirling white vapour. Stepping into nothingness is unsettling, and it doesn’t help that the ground is uneven and I nearly lose my footing. Not that it seems to worry Tom, who jogs down the hill, his feet sliding on the loose gravel. I think about asking him to wait, but he’s already halfway to the bottom.
Eventually a boat comes into view, cream and black and considerably bigger than the catamaran we arrived in. Tom looks back at me and grins, his relief evident, and I smile too. Even though I’m not going with him, the idea of being abandoned here isn’t exactly pleasant.
Tom trudges along the foam-covered pebbles towards the boat, and I follow him. Maybe it’s the damp air, but the smell of sulphur is stronger than ever. It must be coming from the seaweed, strewn across the shingle in thick dark ropes. I think about the dead seal pup and wonder if that’s where the rotting smell is coming from. Or maybe it’s the harbour wall itself, which is covered with tiny rough barnacles and furry lime-green lichen that seems to almost glow in the pale mist.
‘Hello, anyone there?’ shouts Tom.
David’s head appears on deck. ‘Hi, come on up!’
Tom waves me over and then climbs the metal ladder. The boat isn’t as big as I thought, so presumably David must do several trips when he takes the sheep across. I can’t see them from here, but I can hear their plaintive bleats and the faint clatter of hooves.
I climb the ladder and Tom hauls me aboard.
‘Missing the open sea, eh?’ laughs David.
Tom’s face pales and I realise why he only ate toast this morning. He forces a smile. ‘Yes, that’s right. I was hoping to go back with you today, if that’s OK.’
The boatman eyes me warily. ‘Decided to leave early, then?’
I shrug. ‘David, I wanted to ask if –’
An alarmed bleat sounds behind him. The noise is followed by another and another, and then there’s a panicked snort and the clatter of hooves.
‘What on earth?’ He strides towards the sheep, but then stops and peers down at his feet. I can’t see what he’s looking at, but something is wrong. A waft of decay reaches my nose and I grab Tom’s arm.
A swirl of shadow moves across the deck and grows bigger, rising up to stand in the vague form of a human, its black outline hazy and indistinct. A second later, it slides across David’s face. He stares at me, his eyes bulging, then tilts his head to the side, making the bones in his neck pop and crack. Again and again he repeats the motion, like some kind of automaton.
Tom stares, open-mouthed.
‘Please, Tom, we need to run.’
David stops moving his head and charges at me. I rest my weight on my back leg and find my stance, ready to throw him, but I don’t get the opportunity. Tom hurls himself at the boatman, grabbing him around the waist and shoving him into the metal rail behind. The older man straightens and rubs his back. I think he’s returned to normal, but then he sees me and his face twists with malice.
David lunges at me again and this time Tom tackles him by the legs. The boatman goes down with a thud, his head cracking on the deck. Tom scrambles to his feet, then checks him over, feeling for a pulse in his neck. When he pulls his hand away, it’s covered in blood.
‘It’s not your fault. You didn’t mean to hurt him,’ I whisper.
He looks at me blankly, as if he can’t take in what just happened. The boatman groans and begins to stir, and Tom turns and gestures for us to go.
I race for the ladder and scramble down, half-dropping onto the shingle, and Tom jumps down behind me, landing awkwardly. He gathers up the bags with a wince and looks down at his ankle. I take his arm and wrap it around my shoulder and we stumble across the pebbles, both of us glancing back at the boat.
We’re twenty paces away when David appears on deck. His face seems normal, the grimace gone. Holding on to the rail with one hand, he touches the back of his head then looks at his fingers in surprise. I wait for him to shout down to us, but it’s like he hasn’t seen us.
Tom hops on one foot and I take the bags so he can get his balance. We watch as the boatman unwinds the rope from the harbour and a moment later we hear the engine rumble into life. The boat pulls away and turns in a wide arc. Tom mutters in disbelief, ‘He’s leaving.’
The boat picks up speed, leaving a trail of churning white foam in its wake, and then it’s gone, swallowed by the fog.
We stop to rest at the top of the hill, and Tom bends to rub his ankle. A thin film of sweat covers his forehead and his hand is trembling. He holds my gaze for a beat then looks away, his eyes filled with anxiety. I wish I could reassure him that everything will be OK, but how can I? He straightens up and stares toward the misty sea, his face unreadable. He hasn’t said a word since we watched the boat leave, but I have to know.
He nods, not taking his gaze from the horizon.
‘You saw the shadow?’
I expect him to ask me about it and demand that I tell him everything I know, but he doesn’t. He releases a heavy breath and limps off down the path, his shoulders slumped.
When we reach the farmhouse, I check the quad bike and find the key in the ignition. The petrol is low but it should be enough to get us to the cottage. The thought of my mum doing this ritual alone sends a jolt of worry through me. I need to get back – and quickly.
Tom gives me a sceptical look. ‘Have you driven one before?’
Setting also plays a big part. I like to choose settings that are slightly apart from the 'real' world, where you have the sense that something unexplained could happen. I spend a lot of time trying to create a strong sense of place and atmosphere, so that the reader feels they're in the story with the characters. This hopefully makes the story feel more believable.
However, it is important to remember that much of what is known about Burge is based on speculation and exaggeration. During her time, accusations of witchcraft were incredibly common. Many innocent people, particularly women, were falsely accused and persecuted. Calling forth the witch Rachel Burge allows us to explore the historical context surrounding witch trials and the societal fears that fueled them. It sheds light on the irrationality and hysteria that swept through communities, leading to the unjust persecution of countless individuals. By examining Burge's story, we can better understand the dangers of scapegoating and the consequences of fear-driven mass hysteria. It serves as a reminder that the pursuit of justice should always be grounded in evidence and reason, rather than superstition and prejudice. The legend of Rachel Burge continues to captivate and intrigue, serving as a cautionary tale of the dangers of unchecked fear and the importance of critical thinking. While her existence may be shrouded in mystery, her legacy lives on as a reminder of the dark chapters in history and the enduring power of myth and legend..
Reviews for "Rachel Burge: Navigating Stereotypes and Misconceptions about Witchcraft"
- Sarah - 1 star - I found "Calling forth the witch Rachel Burge" to be incredibly boring and uninteresting. The storyline was slow and dragged on without any real excitement or suspense. The characters were underdeveloped and lacked depth, making it difficult to connect with any of them. Overall, I was disappointed with this book and would not recommend it to others.
- Michael - 2 stars - I had high hopes for "Calling forth the witch Rachel Burge" but was left feeling unimpressed. The writing was average at best, with repetitive phrases and lackluster descriptions. The plot had potential, but it fell flat and failed to keep my attention. I also found some of the dialogue to be unrealistic and forced. Unfortunately, this book did not live up to my expectations.
- Emily - 2 stars - I struggled to get through "Calling forth the witch Rachel Burge". The pacing was incredibly slow, and the story seemed to lack direction. The main character, Rachel Burge, was not likable or relatable, and I had a difficult time investing in her journey. The supernatural elements felt forced and out of place, and the overall writing style did not captivate me. This book just wasn't for me, and I wouldn't recommend it.