The Keystone Witch

May 14th

I was allowed five minutes of peace after finishing my Southern Rockies report before they sent me to the Northern lakes and forests of Wisconsin for more field work. I arrived earlier this afternoon but can’t remember the name of the Podunk town I’m staying in. Downtown is a single road with crumbling brick buildings, the nearby diner looks greasier than an unwashed bacon tray, and I’ve seen more bars than I have people. The bulletin board of my motel is nothing but tattered job postings, a faded missing persons poster, and the local high school’s next play. When I checked in, the gentleman at the desk only spoke in grunts, nods, and scoffs. I will limit my time within town limits as much as possible, for my health.

I’ve finished unpacking my things and will begin my investigation tomorrow morning. My target this time is the American marten. Several protection zones have been established within Wisconsin to increase the population. After several re-introductions, we are interested in gauging the marten’s impact on the ecological landscape outside of these zones.

My flight was terrible, and my seat neighbor snored from takeoff to landing. I’m eager to hit the dirt and take in the fresh air. Though I’m always grateful to accept field work, it’s been a while since I’ve trekked through nature without goals and deadlines weighing me down. I should submit vacation time once I return home.

May 15th

My boots are caked in silt loam and wintergreen permeates the air. I am surrounded by black ashes, white-cedars, maples, yellow birches, and balsam firs too tall and grand to be cut for Christmas trees.

Walking along a medium-sized river, I’ve spotted little gilt darters and mudpuppies. I haven’t come across any black bears or grey wolves, thankfully, though both species are common this far North. I have my gun with me, but I hope (like always) I’m given no reason to use it.

I’ve seen a handful of white-tail deer, and even a warpaint emerald, but no martens. This was expected. It will take time to find any outside of the protected areas. It’s possible I will not find any at all. They are tricky to spot, and their low population makes it all the more difficult. But as it usually is with endangered species, I fear there is human involvement.

It is illegal to trap and kill martens in these parts, but I suspect harvesting furbearers is a pastime for many in town. If I find evidence against any immoral lawbreaker, I will be swift to report them to the WDNR. I have no patience for people who value money over wildlife. They are nothing but pure scum.

No, that is too cruel an insult. Properly maintained pond scum is vital to a healthy freshwater ecosystem.

May 16th

In the early afternoon, several hours after entering the forest, I found a bee colony. I’ve never seen a hive so thoroughly and wholly decimated in my life.

The hive, originally about 12 feet in the air, was on the ground along with the branch it hung from. This was no small branch; maybe 17 inches in diameter. The break was fresh. The splintering wood from both tree and branch indicated a quick and powerful snap. Perhaps a bear. Perhaps a cruel ‘prank’ by drunken locals.

Sheets of comb were scattered around the area, dripping with fresh honey and crushed larvae eggs. The worst of it, and the most baffling, were the bees. I estimate this colony was about 70,000 members large. Their yellow corpses littered the ground like striped confetti.

I’ve seen many mass mortality events over the years, but they are always difficult to contend with. I can still feel all those tiny eyes on my skin. Like they were asking why I wasn’t there to help them in time.

I looked for clues or evidence in the surrounding area, but I heard a noise off in the distance. Fearing it was a predator, I left and ended the day early.

Tonight, I’ll see if I can find anything that may explain my discovery. Past reports, old news, anything like that. I’ll send an email to the office soon, but I’d rather wait until I know more. Field trips are the only time I get to escape from their emails and chatter. I don’t want to end my peaceful silence prematurely for no reason.

Tomorrow I’ll go back and see if I can find the cause of death. I suspect it was done with chemicals, but chemicals don’t explain how the branch broke from the tree.

Still have not found a single marten, either.

May 17th

An unanticipated downpour kept me inside today. My online investigation was fruitless, so I went to the cleanest looking bar I could find to clear my mind. I caught a few skeptical glances from patrons and the barkeep, but no one escalated it further than that. From their expressions, I suspect they’ve never seen a book, let alone someone reading from one.

Days like today remind me why I spend so much time outside rather than in the company of my own kind. The northern long-eared bat may be suffering from white-nose syndrome, but it doesn’t complain about the unemployment rate for two hours straight.

Beer was good, though, I’ll give them that. Overpriced, but good.

May 18th

I’m not alone in these woods. Of course not. Not only am I in the company of intimidating fauna, but also the WDNR, private landowners, hunters, and outdoor clubs. I expected to run into another person at least once. But the individual I saw was not a federal employee, nor a hunter, nor a forager searching for the humble morel.

On the way back to the destroyed bee hive, I became tangled within a thicket. While branches snagged and pulled my socks down, poison ivy reached out to touch my skin. They passed as I struggled to untangle myself. I only caught a quick glance.

I saw a rat’s nest of dark hair filled with twigs and wild debris. I believe they were White, though they were so dirty I’m not certain. They also seemed to be shirtless. But the most striking detail was a shiny red smear across their mouth, like messy lipstick.

That was all I caught before they disappeared. I called out to them, but they didn’t respond. Again, I expected to run into others out here, but the appearance of this individual makes me worry. Anyone wandering half-naked through the woods cannot be mentally well.

I’m tempted to see if the locals know anything, but I doubt anyone would help. If I see that individual again tomorrow, I’ll be certain to ask for an explanation.

May 19th

If this entry is illegible, I blame my shaking hands. Fearing for my life, I put distance between us before dictating my findings. I do not fear inaccuracy, however. She is burned into my mind forever.

I found the colony before I found her. This hive was constructed high within the hollow knot of a tree, and its occupants were buzzing and thriving – business as usual. I observed them from the cover of shrubs.

While I jotted down notes, she appeared. From my concealed position, she could not see me. I, however, saw all of her.

Just as I suspected, she was White. Dirt and scum caked every inch of her skin – I know this for certain, as she was also naked. Thick dark hair grew from her legs, underarms, and crotch. Her feet were gone. She actually had no heels or arches. She walked on the balls of her feet as elegant as a woman wearing heels, like she didn’t even notice something was wrong.

Her odor was foul, a dizzying mix of sweat, pus, and decay. Her physical health appeared normal, except, of course, for the giant gash across her midsection. It looked like someone took a dull hand saw straight to her gut.

Her mouth was smeared in a red that resembled the blood oozing from her belly. The periorbital area was coated with black dust, maybe ashes. Her eyes were widened as far as they could go. From where I cowered, her eyes were nothing but bloodshot whites. She did not blink. Not even once.

Her appearance was enough to make me reach for my gun. I think anyone else in my position would have done the same. But I froze when she approached the tree. She tilted her head back, searching for the top. Her pencil-thin neck seemed to bend forever. A skeletal hand touched the rough bark. I watched as she began to climb.

The tree was knotted and rough, but not nearly enough to climb it. Yet she wrapped her arms around the trunk and held on with clawed fingers. Sharp bark scraped against her front, but it didn’t seem to hurt her. Occasionally she’d slip down, but she never fell off.

Within the cover of the shrubbery, I was still as stone. My instincts told me to flee, but they were silenced by another; a powerful, ancient feeling deep in my gut urging me to be wary, to be careful, and to not catch her attention.

My experience with the uncanny valley is limited. I only feel it with videos of advancing robotic development. The machines that appear human are enough to make me squirm. But after what I saw today, I can’t deny the existence of the inhuman, or the unnatural. Though her body was human, and her face was human, I know she was something else entirely.

Once she made it to the hive, the bees were a frenzied cloud around her head. She shoved her arm into the knot. I watched her rip bloody fistfuls of hive and comb out, then throw them to the ground.

The bees swarmed to protect their home. They had to have been stinging her, but she continued to destroy the hive with slow, methodical movement. Then the bees started dropping from the air. At first it was just a few. I watched their tiny bodies fall to the ground and bounce on impact. I assumed they had stung her and separated from their stinger.

But more began to fall. They fell like pebbles of gravel poured from a bucket. Hundreds of them rained on the brush below, and very soon the ground was covered in a sea of dead honey bees. From the mass grave I saw twitching legs and the final flutter of wings.

I’m not certain how long it lasted. She continued her destruction, oblivious to the swarm’s attack. Never even took the time to swat at them. Just continued destroying the hive, one sticky handful at a time.

Eventually the swarm was nothing more than a handful of drones flying without purpose. Some flew away. Others tried to re-enter their destroyed home. A few more fell dead, but their contribution to the mass grave was inconsequential.

The woman climbed down the tree, careful and slow. Her hand was coated in honey, wax, and broken comb. I could even see a few bees, stuck and drowning in their life’s purpose.

Once she was on the ground, she fell onto all fours and bear crawled into the bees. Hunched over, the loose flesh of her belly wound dangled. Her hands dug around the bees, searching for something.

By that point I’m not sure if I was breathing. Without an ounce of shame, I admit I had never been more terrified in my life. I had the advantage of a larger build and natural strength that most males hold over their female counterparts. Additionally, I still had my gun. But even with all that, instinct told me it didn’t matter. If she saw me, I was a dead man.

She paused and pulled something out. I could not see for certain what it was, but I believe it was the queen. A look of satisfaction crossed her face. Then she placed it in her mouth. She chewed for a moment, swallowed, stood upright, and walked away.

I counted 100 seconds before fleeing. It took over two hours of walking to find that colony, but I managed to sprint all the way back to my rental car in less than half that time. There’s still a sharp pain in my lungs with every inhale.

I know what I witnessed, yet I can’t begin to comprehend what in God’s name I saw. I don’t know what to do. How do I even begin explaining what I saw? No one would believe me. Why should they? I can’t risk being admitted because I claim I saw a naked woman with no feet destroy an entire bee hive. If I call the office they’ll think I’ve snapped, and if I tell anyone in town they’ll think I’m insane. Even if I leave out the details, they’ll ask questions, and I don’t think they’ll like my answers.

Something is clearly wrong with that woman, but I don’t understand her actions. Tens of thousands of bees are dead. For what? Why did she do it? What motivation could anyone have to commit such a violent act of cruelty? They were just trying to do their job. They were just existing.

I don’t understand. I don’t know what to do.

May 20th

It’s a bright and beautiful day, but I remain inside. I can’t bring myself to leave my room. She’s out there, somewhere. Hunting.

I didn’t sleep at all last night. I couldn’t. When I close my eyes, I see her. I need to get away. I need to escape. I won’t be safe until I’m as far away from these cursed hardwoods as possible.

But that’s not the right thing to do, is it? There is obviously something happening, and she cannot be allowed to roam free. Perhaps if the right person confronted her, they could give her the help she needs and protect the ecosystem all at once. But for that to happen, they have to believe she’s real. And they won’t believe she’s real without proof. My word isn’t good enough to convince anyone. There’s nothing I can do.

But if I don’t do something, then isn’t the blame on me? Because if this continues, the ecosystem will suffer. Isn’t it my moral responsibility as a conservational biologist to do something? As a member of the ecosystem she is threatening? Do I have to feel guilty if I’m the only one who knows?

This coffee isn’t helping my headache anymore. It’s not even good coffee. It’s bad. I’m drinking bad coffee.

May 21st

I had lunch at a diner near my motel. The booths held great scenery of towering black ashes. I admired them when I first arrived. Not anymore.

It took me a few hours, but I managed to force down some food. I think my waitress was annoyed at my lengthy stay, but there weren’t many other customers. I tried to read my notes, but I couldn’t focus. My attention always turned to the conversation around me.

No matter who it was, once the pleasantries were out of the way, it was discussing the lower unemployment rate. College-age nieces and nephews that work two jobs to support themselves. Rising costs and stagnant wages. Money, money, money, money. That’s all that matters to these people. For them, if they have no money, life has no pleasure.

As a child I never understood the adult obsession with material wealth. Nothing’s changed, except the absence of my youth. But I’ve always found the greatest joys of life to be the natural world. No tech has ever fascinated me in the same way tracing a finger against a mushroom’s gills does. When I am spooked by a chipmunk darting through dry leaves, that surge of energy is real. It’s raw, and nothing artificially made can ever replicate it. It’s as fragile as it is powerful.

It didn’t use to be terrifying.

I can’t separate myself from civilization entirely, but I keep enough space to stay sane. At least, I did. After meeting her, I’m not sure I can go out there again. I tried to be coy and ask my waitress if there was anything about the local wilderness that she found odd or strange, but she dismissed my inquiry about as quickly as she brought me the check.

Usually, I don’t concern myself with pleasantries and the public’s perception of me, but this social flub upset me more than usual. Even answering with a simple ‘no’ would have worked better than an eyeroll.

If people were as easy to read as nature, I would’ve studied sociology. But for the first time in my life, the natural world is as terrifying as the industrial one, and I don’t know what to do.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

May 22nd

They say that if you give a name to something you fear, it becomes familiar and no longer a threat. After much deliberation, I’ve decided to call the woman the Keystone Witch. Keystone species are fundamental to wildlife preservation. Without keystones in the stone arch of life, it all crumbles to dust. Honey bees are one of these species. Without them, both nature and civilization would crumble in a matter of years. It sounds contradictory to name her after what she destroys, but I haven’t slept in 40 hours and creative naming was never a strength of mine.

Associating her with witchcraft also feels reasonable. Witches have a close association with nature, and some stories say that witches performed their wild magic in the nude. I don’t know the validity of this, but again, 40 hours without sleep. Until I know her true name, she is the Keystone Witch.

Pacing around this little motel room has brought up an old memory. I was probably five, maybe six, and I was out of bed late at night. And I crept into the living room while my parents watched television. It was a nature documentary, but I don’t know if I understood that at the time. I hid behind the couch and watched along with them.

There were little babies with puffy grey feathers and tiny heads. They bounced around and fell over and played adorably. They were a joy to watch.

Then I watched the adults bow down and feed their chicks a regurgitated meal. I understood that was how penguins fed their young, but I didn’t understand why some stumbled with a raw expression of pain in their wet eyes.

Then the camera turned onto a chick lying on the pebble shore. The wind tousled its puffy coat, and its mother stood above it. I only understood after the camera moved to another chick. This chick, with its decomposing body and open stomach stuffed full of plastic, was dead.

With hindsight it is obvious the documentary showed how plastic waste in our oceans harm wildlife. Maybe if I had listened to the narrator, I would have reacted better. But I cried loudly and blew my cover behind the couch.

My father then took me by the wrist and led me back to my room. All the while I was blubbering with snot running down my face, distraught and confused.

He sat with me on my bed and waited until I stopped crying. When I could finally speak, I asked why the baby penguins were dead. He explained that when adult penguins swallow garbage then feed the babies, the garbage fills the chick’s stomach. Real food cannot be digested because of it, and the chicks starve to death.

Then I asked why the film people did nothing to help. Why would they let the babies die if they knew what was wrong?

And I remember he did not answer right away because he always responded without pause. His words were like bullets in a revolver. He was sharp, quick, and blunt. I don’t need a therapist to tell me whom I inherited my social ineptitude from. But I remember that pause, and the sigh that ended it.

He said, “Because saving one life could mean killing hundreds of others. If they interfere, they disrupt nature. It’s their job to observe, not to act. And there is nothing wrong with that.”

I have tortured myself these past few days over what to do. I’ve questioned morals and ethics and duty and obligation. I thought I had no guidance with a situation so unprecedented as her. But then I remembered that dead penguin chick with its stomach stuffed with plastic. And I remembered sitting on my bed, eyes sore and nose red, my father’s monotone voice in my ears, and experiencing vitriolic hatred for the first time. I hated those invisible cameramen for letting little babies die. I hated how they did nothing to help, and I hated that there was nothing wrong with that.

I’m the only one that knows about her. I don’t know what she is, but I observed how she disrupted nature, and I know that if I do not interfere, millions of others will die. So, I am going to act.

I’m scared, and I don’t know what to expect, but I have direction. My new goal is to obtain evidence of her existence. I have my digital camera with me. I usually don’t take it when I go out, but my animosity toward digital tech be damned, I’m taking it tomorrow. I’ve cleaned my gun twice already, but if sleep evades me again, I’ll give it another once over.

One way or another, I’ll get a shot on the Keystone Witch.

May 23rd

I leave tonight. If anyone reads these pages after my absence and/or death, I beg that you heed these warnings, regard them as truth, and never make the mistake I made.

After a few hours of wandering, either by luck or fate, I found her again. She sat at a river eating a fish alive. I was maybe 20, 30 yards away. My G20 10mm was loaded and secured at my side. I was raised with a religious upbringing, though I’ve held no faith as an adult. But after I found her at the water’s edge, I uttered a silent prayer to God for protection. I don’t think He heard me.

I crept a bit closer and pulled out my camera. My hands trembled terribly. I took a deep breath and aimed it. She was distracted by her meal, blood and oil dripping down her face and neck. On the exhale, I pushed the shutter release.

The Keystone Witch turned her head 180 degrees like a barn owl. Her eyes stared directly into mine. If it were up to my brain, I would’ve stayed there, paralyzed by fear. My body, driven by ancient survival instincts, knew better. I jumped and sprinted away from her.

All I could hear was my pounding heart and ragged gasps. I didn’t dare check if I was being followed, but I could hear snapping branches and leaves behind me. I pumped my arms with all my strength, my camera in the firm grip of my hand.

My bootlace snagged on a root. I crashed face-first into the brush, taking in a mouthful of dirt and dry leaves. My camera skidded across the ground and landed before the feet of the Keystone Witch.

While I stared at her within the veil of her shadow, she stared at the camera. Her odor was beyond vile. I could see exposed bones within her gored feet, along with strings of flesh and muscle that dragged across the ground.

She grabbed my camera. and studied it curiously. A moment later, she snapped it in half. She broke it like it was flimsy plywood. Effortless.

She dropped the two halves to the ground and only then noticed me. I did not wait for her next move. Before she could take a step toward me, I drew my gun and fired three shots.

Her scream was muffled by the ringing in my ears. She stumbled back while clutching her lacerated stomach. I had aimed for the heart, but with my shaking hands and low angle, hit her in the gut. I lowered my gun and waited for her to drop.

The Keystone Witch snarled and plunged her hand into the gaping wound. I watched in mute horror as her fingers dug around her insides. I even saw glimpses of internal organs bulging out, pulsing and slippery with red. She yanked her hand out and threw three metal bullets to the ground.

Then she lunged at me with barred teeth. I aimed my gun, but my sweat-slick hands couldn’t keep a grip. It was knocked out of my grasp when she slammed her body against my chest.

She was on top of me with one knee pressed into my sternum. The other knee pinned my right arm, and her left hand contained my left arm. Her grip was as cold as steel and twice as strong. I could do nothing but pray that whoever – whatever – she was, she would spare my life.

Our noses nearly touched. Her eyes were nothing but blank whites with spidering red veins. I watched helplessly as her free hand plunged into her gut. When she pulled it out, it was coated in blood and viscera. My stomach lurched when it dripped onto my chest. Nothing could have prepared me for when she smeared it over my mouth.

The blood was warm and slick, but her hand was rough and cold. Her fingers painted it across my cheeks, chin, and lips. I gritted my teeth and pressed my lips shut, but the tiniest bit managed to find its way onto my tongue.

She pulled her hand away and bolted into the trees. One moment the Keystone Witch had me pinned, the next, she was gone, and I was alone.

I rolled onto my side and vomited up what little was in my stomach. I heaved over and over again until I couldn’t even expel bile. Her blood was still burning and rotten on my tongue.

Once I regained control of my quivering stomach, I crawled to the shattered camera. The memory card was snapped, its contents unsalvageable. I sobbed.

There was ample daylight when I returned to my car. I drove straight to the motel and showered until all the hot water was used up. I scrubbed my face raw, but I can still feel her blood on me. I can still smell it. Taste it.

I have no proof of her existence except for my own mental scarring. Three bullets to the gut would kill a normal person. Whatever the Keystone Witch is, I only know she is not human. I came here because of work, driven by ambition, responsibility, and the desire to make a positive impact. Soon I will leave, damning this place and every wretched ecosystem that dares to house demonic creatures like her. There used to be comfort in knowing how small and insignificant I am compared to the breadth of mother nature. Now I only feel disgusted.

On my way to my room from my car, I spotted an anthill on the patchy lawn near the sidewalk. It was small and unassuming, a wide cone built from sandy soil. There were several ants crawling over it. Some disappeared within the hole while others exited, rushing to perform their job for the benefit of the colony.

I didn’t have control of my actions, though I was aware of what I was doing. I went inside the motel lobby and opened the broom closet. I returned to the ant hill with a bottle of bleach, untwisted the cap, and dumped it.

Ants spasmed in the toxic flood. A small wave of ants flushed out of the cone as the bleach soaked into the earth. As the final drips of liquid fell, I stared at my carnage with satisfaction. Those ants did nothing to me. All they wanted to do was exist. And I denied them that.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to these woods or this town, but it’s comforting to know that those ants will never work another day in their lives.