Once upon a time there was a lovely little girl named Sarah, who lived in a cottage in the forest far to the north. She was beautiful and kind, but terribly lonely, for her mother had died soon after she was born, and her father, though he loved her dearly, was often absent, for his duties as a soldier required him to travel far from home for long periods.
Her father, since the death of his wife, had nothing in the world he cared for so much as his dear pretty daughter, and he doted on her whenever he was at home. Yet he feared greatly for Sarah’s upbringing, since he had to be away for such long spans. And so, although he was as devoted a father as he could be, for Sarah’s sake he married again, so she might grow up surrounded by a mother’s love.
The woman he married was beautiful, so beautiful that many men thought her the most lovely being they had ever seen. But behind her smiling blue eyes and tresses of gold, she was arrogant and cruel, though she hid this well from Sarah’s father. It was only when his duties took him away from home that she revealed her true nature, and inflicted her cruelest deeds upon poor little Sarah.
Her Stepmother could scarcely bear the sight of sight a pretty creature, and Sarah’s kind heart and sweet temper only enraged her ever so more. Sarah at first tried to get her Stepmother to play and dance and draw with her, but she would do nothing of the sort, and because Sarah was so cheerful, the cruel woman set about trying to make the girl’s life as miserable as her own.
Soon she had reserved all the meanest chores of the house for Sarah. The little girl was made to clean all of the dishes, scour all of the floors, wash all of the laundry, and sweep and dust every room of the house, most especially her Stepmother’s chamber, which needed to be completely spotless, lest Sarah receive a beating. And, so wicked and evil was her Stepmother, that when Sarah finished her chores she would make the girl stand to the side and then inspect everything she had done, searching solely for an excuse to bring harm to her.
“Sarah, this cup still has a ring at its bottom!” cried her Stepmother, slapping Sarah’s rosy cheek. And Sarah would be made to clean all the dishes once more.
“Sarah, this towel’s corner is creased!” screamed her Stepmother, yanking Sarah’s ebony hair. And Sarah would be made to do the whole load of laundry once more.
“Sarah, this drape has dust beneath it!” shouted her Stepmother, twisting Sarah’s porcelain arm. And Sarah would be made to dust every nook and cranny of the house once more.
Gradually, her Stepmother piled on more and more chores for Sarah to complete each day, until the poor girl had no time at all between the rising and setting of the sun to play or draw or enjoy her youth. But Sarah bore all her sufferings patiently, for she knew that whensoever her father returned home, her load would be lightened, and she would be able to return to her toys and sketchpads, and her Stepmother would dare not slap her, or spank her, or bring harm to her in any way. In this manner, her travails was made bearable, and she performed all of her duties without complaint. This perfect, meek compliance only enraged her Stepmother more, and caused the wicked woman to continually think of new cruelties to inflict upon little Sarah.
One day, her Stepmother summoned Sarah with a lengthy list of arduous new chores for the young girl to complete, and she grinned evilly as Sarah stood at attention before her awaiting instruction.
“Sarah dear, the chimney needs cleaning,” said the Stepmother. “Scrub the firebrick and then wriggle yourself up the flue and sweep it well.”
“Yes, Stepmother,” Sarah replied, already spinning on her heels to fetch her brush, for though she dreaded the claustrophobic task of climbing the chimney, she was an obedient child.
“What did you call me?” cried her Stepmother, whose voice was brittle as ice. Sarah froze in her tracks and turned back fearfully to face her Stepmother.
“Mother. I said Mother,” Sarah lied despite herself, her little lips trembling at the scowl smeared across her Stepmother’s face.
“Do not speak lies to me, young lady!” her Stepmother hissed, reaching out and grabbing Sarah’s wrist tightly. “How many times must I tell you? Never, ever call me ‘Stepmother’! I am your mother, and am only to ever be addressed as such! Is that clear?”
Sarah nodded quickly. Her eyes were wide in fear and pain, for her Stepmother’s grip on her wrist was terribly tight, and her long nails dug into Sarah’s skin.
“Answer me!” commanded her Stepmother, in a terrible voice, “Is that clear? Yes or no?”
“Y-es! Y-Yes!” cried Sarah.
“Yes who?”
“Yes mother!” said Sarah, her little voice cracking in fear.
“Good!” her Stepmother harumphed, finally releasing Sarah’s arm. “Now, I was going to have you clean the chimney, and this you shall still do later, but right now I am so displeased with you that I simply want you out of my sight. Go and fetch me a pail of water.”
Sarah rubbed her sore wrist and when she looked down at it she knew that it would bruise, and she would be compelled to lie to her father as to its cause, lest her Stepmother beat her even more cruelly when he next left home. For this reason, her Stepmother usually beat her on her back or behind, so the welts and bruises she left would be concealed by Sarah’s garments.
“Yes, mother,” Sarah replied, curtsying and turning to fetch the pail. The task would be accomplished easily enough, for there was a stone well right in the yard; perhaps she would even be long in drawing the water to avoid returning to her Stepmother.
“Sarah,” her Stepmother called. “I do not want you to fetch water from the well in the yard, for lately its taste has become pungent, and dragonflies have taken to laying their eggs in it.”
“Where else am I to fetch water, mother?” Sarah asked sincerely, for she genuinely knew of no other place.
Her Stepmother grinned wickedly once more. “The river,” she said, “Fetch me a pail of water from the river, five miles yonder. There is a path through the forest leading from our house straight to it. Follow the path, and do not return without a full bucket of water. A full bucket, Sarah. Is that understood?”
“Yes, mother,” Sarah answered, though she trembled at the thought of traveling through the dark forest where prowled many bears and panthers and wolves.
“When you arrive at the river, you mustn’t drink any water, not even a drop,” her Stepmother continued, “You are simply to fill the bucket and return to the house. On your journey home, you are not to set the bucket down or stop to rest for any reason, nor are you to drink any water from the bucket, and you most especially must not spill even a single drop of water. And I will know if you spill or drink a drop, Sarah, because the Head will tell me.”
“The Head?” Sarah asked.
Her Stepmother smiled cruelly. “There is a Severed Head hidden away in the house, which I speak to sometimes. It tells me secrets, Sarah, for it is very wise. The Head sees everything, it hears everything, and it knows everything there is to know. If you should ever speak lies to me, or break any of the good, sensible rules I have laid out for you to follow, the Severed Head will tell of it, and I will punish you accordingly.”
Sarah nodded, equal parts terrified and curious, for she wondered howsoever her Stepmother might have acquired such a morbid thing as a Severed Head to speak to.
She went and fetched the metal pail from beside the well, and stared long into the dark forest before her, which seemed the most dismal and haunted place upon the face of the earth. The chestnuts and hemlocks stood like the turrets of a castle, growing so thick and close together that they presented an impenetrable wall of green. But her Stepmother had spoken true, for Sarah could see a thin, needle-strewn path threading its way through the woods ahead. She looked back at the little cottage, only to see her Stepmother staring at her through the kitchen window, as if to make sure she would actually enter the deep forest and did not discreetly draw water from the well. And so Sarah sucked in a deep breath and set off bravely down the needle-strewn trail.
The forest was dark and her walk was long. At first, Sarah could scarcely think, for she feared every sound coming from the dense underbrush around her. Every chipmunk’s pattering and grouse’s ruffling wings seemed a harbinger of a bear, or a panther, or a pack of wolves. Her fear of these beasts and other imaginary creatures far fiercer kept her head on a fair swivel, and her eyes wide and alert, and her heart thrumming steadily in her chest, such that she was scarcely able to enjoy exploring the forest, to which she had never been before.
It was mid-morning when Sarah first began her journey, and though she knew it would take some hours to go through the forest, her fear made her so anxious to reach the river that she pressed on as quick as her feet could carry her. Not a house was to be seen in all that lonesome way, only the vast and ancient woods carpeting the hills in green. It was not until well after noon that Sarah finally arrived at the river’s roaring banks. Her relief was great when she finally saw the water looming ahead of her, for she had walked long and was desperately thirsty, and her legs and little feet were quite sore.
“I shall sit for only a minute,” said she, “For even if my Stepmother does have a Severed Head to which she speaks, how could it possibly know what I am doing this far from home?”
And so, disobedient to her Stepmother, she sat upon one of the great boulders strewn along the riverbank, and rubbed her sore feet, and cupped some water in her hands to slake her thirst.
“There probably is no Severed Head,” Sarah said to herself, “Stepmother probably only told that story to try to scare me. I will go home and not spill a drop, as she asked, and when I return she will be none the wiser that I stopped to rest a spell.”
Sarah filled the bucket with fresh water from the river, and, emboldened by her disobedience, her return through the forest was not quite so fearful as her initial journey, though she still looked this way and that for bears and panthers and wolves.
When she arrived home and stepped into the cottage clearing, she found her Stepmother distraught, pacing back and forth in front of the well whilst muttering to herself. When her Stepmother saw Sarah exiting the woods, she rushed over to the girl and slapped her across the face. This stunned Sarah so much that she dropped the pail to the ground with a loud clatter, spilling the water she had carried all this way without losing even a drop.
“You naughty little girl!” screamed her Stepmother, “You deliberately disobeyed me!”
“I didn’t! I didn’t!” pleaded Sarah, cowering under the wicked woman’s blows.
“You disobey me, you spill my water, and now you lie to me, too!” shouted her Stepmother, slapping the girl again even as Sarah tried to shield her face with her hands. “I know you stopped at the river to drink and rub your feet! The Severed Head told me what you did, Sarah!”
“I didn’t, I really didn’t!” Sarah cried, and now she lied despite herself, so terrified was she of her Stepmother hurting her again.
“Liar!” screamed her Stepmother, hitting Sarah so hard that the girl fell to the ground weeping, and her Stepmother continued kicking her back with the points of her boots. “Don’t! You! Ever! Lie! To! Me!”
“I won’t! I won’t! I promise I won’t!” cried Sarah, and she sincerely meant it.
The evil Stepmother left Sarah weeping in the grass to think about what she had done, and from that day on Sarah did all of her chores tirelessly, and obeyed her Stepmother’s every command, for the Severed Head held her life in torment. Whenever her Stepmother even suspected a lie or disobedience, or thought Sarah may have made a mistake in her work, she would say- “I will ask the Severed Head if you have obeyed my instructions completely, and if he tells me you have lied, you will be punished severely!”
When silence was demanded, Sarah’s mouth was zippered shut, and she would only be slapped or beaten if the Severed Head revealed she had sniffled or sneezed. When Sarah was instructed to mend or patch her Stepmother’s fine garments, she did so, and would only be slapped or beaten if the Severed Head told her Stepmother of a loose hanging thread. And when Sarah was sent to the river to fetch a pail of water every other day, she did not stop to rest or drink, and took special care not to spill even a drop, for fear of the Severed Head. And her Stepmother would only slap or beat her if the Head spoke of how Sarah had hesitated at the sight of a bobcat, or spilled some water while climbing over a fallen trunk.
The Severed Head did indeed see all, and hear all, and know every little thing that Sarah did wrong, and every minute of the girl’s life she felt the crushing weight of being watched by the evil Head’s undead eyes.
Journeying deep into the forest every other day to fetch water, Sarah quickly outgrew her fears and became acquainted with the denizens of the deep woods. She learned that the odd little noises which initially had made her leap with terror were almost always only chipmunks or squirrels foraging in the ferns. And she came to know the songs of many birds, and the trails of foxes and rabbits and deer. Other creatures were more secretive. She glimpsed but once the badger as he stole silently through the brush alongside her. Once a vast herd of elk passed the trail in front of her, and she was compelled to stop and stare in wonder as the great deer ambled by. She even heard, though never saw, the far-distant howling of wolves, for this was back when many wolves could yet be found in that part of the country.
She came, too, to learn all the landmarks along the path, just as well as the sight of her own hand. Here was the great rock heap where the sly red fox made his den; there was the meadow of fair wildflowers which Sarah longed to stop and pick, but dared not lest the Severed Head tell of it; and lo stands the hollow oak tree with a mighty fork in its branches. This tree she knew well, for it was exactly halfway between her home and the river. She knew too that a hawk had made its nest in the tree, in the cleft between the branches.
It was one morning after a terrific storm had darkened the skies and made the winds howl all through the day and night when Sarah passed by the hollow oak and found that another tree beside it had been struck by lightning, and its large branches had splintered and fallen into the hawk’s nest. Much to her surprise, she saw the hawk walking in the path, its right wing dragging on the ground.
Sarah knew at once that the poor bird must have broken its wing, and without any help would surely die. And though she greatly feared what her Stepmother would do when the Severed Head told of her stopping, her pity for the wounded creature was greater still. So she set down her pail in the path and crouched low to slowly approach the hawk. When the hawk screeched a warning at her, she whispered soothing assurances to the nervous bird to try to calm it. Then the hawk tried to raise its wings to appear bigger than it really was, but its broken wing would not obey, and it mewled in pain.
Sarah crouched a respectful distance from the hurt hawk, and thought about what to do next. She could not approach the frightened bird without the risk of being hurt, and in trying to hurt her the hawk might indeed hurt itself even more. She knew she needed a peace offering, and so she reached into her pocket and took slices of ham from the sandwich she had made to eat while she walked. When she approached again the hawk screeched once more, but it had not eaten for three days and the smell of ham was intoxicating. Soon Sarah was seated beside the injured bird, feeding it ham out of one hand while she inspected its wing with the other. It was a beautiful bird, its soft feathers shades of mahogany and cinnamon, its bill a blade of obsidian, and its eyes like pools of chocolate. Innocent eyes, rich and brown, much like Sarah’s own.
She lifted up the hawk’s wing and extended it just enough to see where it was broken. No bone protruded, thankfully, and she thought that if the wing could just be set, the hawk might yet heal from its injury. When she began to set the broken wing in place, the hawk winced and screeched, and Sarah ran her fingers soothingly down its head. She set the wing right, and then wondered about how she might wrap it. Her wool skirt, an itchy gift from her Stepmother, was all she had, and she tore fabric from its hem to wrap the bird’s wing.
She wrapped the wing tightly against the bird’s side, but not so tightly that it would be unable to breathe. Then she held the bird under one arm and climbed the tree to place it back in its nest, after cleaning out the debris from the lightning strike as best she was able. She left the bird the rest of the ham from her sandwich and climbed out of the tree to continue on her way to the river, resolving to come back the very next day to feed the hawk and redress its wound.
When Sarah returned home, to her dread she saw her Stepmother pacing in front of the well, her eyes wide and harried.
“You tore your wool skirt!” the wicked Stepmother shrieked, before Sarah had even fully left the trees.
“I’m sorry!” Sarah pleaded, cowering as her Stepmother bore down upon her.
“Liar! That skirt was a gift, you know! I spent many hours at my spinning wheel crafting it just for you, and you tore it all up!”
Sarah knew well that the wool skirt had been a gift, for her Stepmother had made great airs about presenting it to her one summer morning when the sun was blistering and the air was soup to breathe. The wicked woman insisted she had expended so much effort in crafting the wool skirt that Sarah must wear it from then on any time she went to the river, for simply no other garment would do. The fabric was thick and itchy, and Sarah hated it, but she knew that if she dared wear anything else, the Severed Head would tell of it, and she would be beaten.
“You hateful little wretch!” her Stepmother continued, “You always despise the good things I do for you, all the very good and nice and kindly deeds I do, just for you, like preparing your soup when you were taken with the flu, or when I so nicely rearranged your pens and papers, or made you this skirt!”
Sarah remembered all of these incidents just as well- the single bowl of watery, lukewarm soup her Stepmother had brought to her and slammed down on her nightstand when she had been taken with the flu, and when upon returning from a trip to the river she found her Stepmother had broken the tips of all the fine colored pencils her father had gifted her on her birthday, and cast all her wonderful sketchbooks into the fire for they were “full, and surely you must be in want of fresh paper instead.”
And to Sarah’s surprise, her Stepmother began to cry. She cried and cried through gritted teeth, and when Sarah- for she was a kindhearted child- tried to comfort her and tell her how truly sorry she was for ripping her skirt, her Stepmother started hitting her even as she continued to cry.
Sarah went to bed that night bruised all over, and her cheeks stung both from the pain of being slapped so many times and from the tears which lulled her finally to sleep.
The next day, after cleaning the chicken coop and hanging out the laundry- of which there was much, for her Stepmother would sometimes change her outfit twice or thrice a day, just to make more work for Sarah- she headed directly to the woods without informing her Stepmother, bringing with her slivers of ham and two boiled eggs. When she reached the hollow oak tree with the cleft in its branches, she found the hawk still seated in its nest, looking down at her as if it had been expecting her. Sarah climbed the tree and sat upon one of the forked branches, and shared the ham with the hawk, and gave it one egg while she enjoyed the other.
“I shall call you Rain,” Sarah said, scratching the hawk’s feathers just below its chin, much to the bird’s delight, “For I rescued you after the storm.”
Sarah left the hawk after spending some time in the tree with it, scratching and playing with it, and teaching it not to fear her. When she arrived home, her Stepmother was not by the well, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief for she knew her absence had not been noticed, and no beating was forthcoming.
Over the coming days, Sarah journeyed back to the tree many times, and the thought of visiting her new friend gave her much solace as she diligently attended to her many chores. After a week, she became so excited that she would leave her chores half finished, so she could go and visit the hawk, and feed it, and tend to its wing. She thought the bird was healing well, and looked forward to the day when she could remove the tourniquet and see it fly once more, for the hawk was strong and belonged to the wind.
And though Sarah watched her time carefully and always finished her chores properly upon returning from visiting Rain, her giddy neglect did not go unnoticed by her Stepmother. The wicked woman watched the girl from the kitchen window as she hung out half the laundry to dry, then disappeared furtively into the forest for an hour or so, before returning to finish hanging the laundry. And as the cruel Stepmother watched Sarah become more brazen in her neglect of her chores, she plotted an evil scheme.
Sarah had just finished cleaning the chicken coop and sauntered happily down the needle-strewn trail, for it was the day she meant to remove the hawk’s bandage and see it fly once more. But when she arrived at the base of the old hollow oak, it was desolate. The ground was strewn with straw and twigs and downy white feathers, and when Sarah looked up at the fork in the oak’s branches, she saw that the hawk’s nest had been destroyed, as if some mighty gale had come along and blown it right from the tree.
“Rain?” Sarah called nervously, hoping that her friend was okay, perhaps still in the branches somewhere. She climbed the tree and continued calling the bird’s name- “Rain? Where are you, Rain?”
When she finally ascended to the top of the trunk where the nest had been, Rain was nowhere to be found. All Sarah saw was a single brown feather sticking straight up from a clump of moss that remained from the nest, and at the sight of it her heart sank, for wrapped around the shaft of the feather was one long, blonde hair.
Sarah stared at the rubbish of the nest for a long time, and then she left the tree and turned to walk home and she did not look back. When she got home, she went up to her bedroom and pulled out one of her sketchbooks, and filled its pages with drawings of a happy little girl with hair of ebony and skin of snow holding out her arm, whereupon a beautiful, red-feathered hawk winged down to alight upon it. And she cried and cried for the memory of her friend.
Her Stepmother called to her late in the evening, “Sarah, dear, dinner is ready!”
Though Sarah was not hungry in the slightest, she knew her Stepmother would be enraged if she did not come down to eat, and so she gathered up her broken heart and went downstairs.
There was only one dish of food at the table- a platter upon which sat the tiniest chicken Sarah had ever seen. She looked at it and thought to herself, “There are no chickens in our coop so small as that.”
Her Stepmother smiled broadly at her, and twirled a lock of her golden hair round her finger, and Sarah’s heart sank as she realized what was on the dinner plate.
“Come and eat,” her Stepmother cooed.
Sarah walked woodenly to the table, staring all the while at the little bird on the platter. She pulled out her chair and sat, and looked down at her plate.
“Go on,” her Stepmother encouraged, “Have some. I spent all day cooking it, just for you.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Sarah, scarcely able to whisper. She wanted to die. She wished only that she could just shrivel up and die.
“What did you say?” said her Stepmother, her sweet voice suddenly changing to a terrible hiss.
Sarah did not reply. Her Stepmother was on her feet in a moment, and the next thing Sarah felt was her Stepmother’s cold hand wrapping around the back of her neck, shaking her violently. “Listen, little missy! I spent all day cooking this bird for you! I poured my heart and soul into preparing it and seasoning it just for you to enjoy, and you are going to eat of it!”
“I’m not hungry!” Sarah cried, her own voice choked in fear and anger and remorse. “I won’t eat it! I won’t! Not ever!”
“Little wretch! The Severed Head told me about that bird of yours!”
“He was my friend!” cried Sarah.
“It was disgusting vermin! It would have gone after our hens, and then what, Sarah? Then what would we eat?”
“Not him!”
Her Stepmother continued shaking her, and her shouts grew more and more twisted and guttural until it seemed the wicked woman would change into some ferocious beast.
“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Sarah screamed, wrenching herself free of her Stepmother’s grasp and racing up the stairs while her Stepmother’s enraged shouts chased her back to her bedroom.
She collapsed onto her bed and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. For Rain and for herself and for all the cruelty in the world.
Later that night, after Sarah had cried all the tears she could cry and was laying glumly beneath her blankets, her bedroom door creaked open. In slouched her cruel Stepmother, who quietly closed the door behind her as she entered. She asked- “Would you like to know how I got the Severed Head, Sarah?”
Sarah turned over in bed to meet her Stepmother’s gaze. She dabbed her still-wet eyes with the edge of her blanket and sniffled.
“Yes, I would,” Sarah nodded, for she was a curious girl and she thought that if she knew more about the mysterious Severed Head, it might be made less frightening, and perhaps she would even learn how to best it.
Her Stepmother seated herself upon the foot of Sarah’s bed, and spake thus-
“Just as your father was married once before, so too was I, to a tall, strapping lumberman who would fell mighty hemlocks with but one chop of his axe. One dark winter night, our home was attacked by Seneca warriors. As they set about pillaging our farmstead, they slit my husband’s throat while he slept. I awoke to the feeling of his warm, wet blood spilling out onto the bedsheets, just as they were about to slit my own throat as well. But I fought back, and I got these-” she said, rolling up her sleeves and holding out her arms so Sarah could see the dozens of long, white scars crisscrossing her flesh, “- and I only just barely managed to escape. I ran out barefoot into the snow, my arms bleeding, and raced all the way to the army fort seven miles away. The soldiers came back with me to try to catch the warriors, and they burnt down one of the nearest Seneca villages in retribution. But they were never able to find the ones who attacked us. Because, in truth, Sarah, there were no warriors. That night, I slit my husband’s throat while he slept, and watched the life drain from his eyes when he awoke to his blood gushing out upon our bedsheets. Then I took this same razor to my own arms, to make it seem as if I had been attacked. I cut myself deep all over, and told the soldiers and the militiamen that the Seneca had attacked us, and the fools believed me. And after the village was burned and the funeral had been held, I waited until the full moon to dig up my husband’s corpse and cut off his head with a silver blade. That is the Severed Head to which I speak, Sarah, the Severed Head which sees all, and hears all, and knows all there is to know. I charmed it so that it would be able to speak, and I keep it hidden away in a safe place, where it can always watch you. And if you are not very obedient to me, Sarah, I will do the same thing to your father. When next he returns from the border, I will slit his throat while he sleeps, and take off his head. And perhaps-” she said, with a cruel laugh, “I shall take your head, as well.”
Sarah leaped up from her bed and ran out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the house, tears streaming down her face as her wicked Stepmother’s laughter echoed behind her. In a blind panic, she ran across the field, past the well, and into the dark forest, and she ran and ran until she fell down beside the hollow oak where Rain had once dwelt. She laid against the rough bark of its trunk and cried in fear and despair, until finally she cried herself to sleep.
There, she had troubled dreams of her Stepmother chasing her through the house with a butcher knife, of her father’s headless body lying in bed beside her Stepmother, of her own throat being slit by a razor. She dreamed she had died and was floating down a tunnel of brilliant light towards beckoning angels, only for the tunnel to suddenly shrink down to a mere pinpoint in a sea of black at the overbearing sound of her Stepmother’s voice chanting in strange, harsh tongues. Then Sarah felt nothing but cold and rough wooden panels about her, and heard nothing but the wind howling outside. She could neither speak, nor open her eyes, nor move in any way. When she tried to cry out for help, naught but a low mumble escaped her cold, dead lips. She felt only the deepest sorrow, for she knew that she was now just another Severed Head in her Stepmother’s collection, imprisoned in a dreadful state between death and life, enslaved to this wicked, evil woman by black magic.
Sarah awoke many hours later, in the middle of the night. Her neck was stiff and she felt not the slightest bit rested. The forest was darker than it had ever been before, for there was no moon by which to light the path, and clouds covered even the brightest of stars. Sarah trembled in fear, not of the forest, which she knew now as thoroughly as she knew her own home, but of her Stepmother, for she knew that when she returned to the house a cruel beating was awaiting her, in retribution for disappearing for so long- if her Stepmother hadn’t already gone to bed herself.
“Perhaps I can sneak back home,” Sarah said to herself, “and my Stepmother will never even know I had gone.”
And so Sarah stepped back onto the path, knowing even in the inky darkness where to avoid every sharp stone and upbraided root, and when she had passed the rock heap where the fox had his den, and when she was finally reaching the forest’s end. When the cottage finally came into view, she saw the last candles still glowing dim orange in its windows, and her heart sank for this could only mean her Stepmother was still awake.
As Sarah came right to the treeline, her breath froze in her lungs. For she saw ahead the cloaked figure of her Stepmother, standing beside the well. And Sarah’s despair was great, for whenever her Stepmother stood by the well, it was only because the Severed Head told her that Sarah had disobeyed her in some way, and she was ready to cruelly beat Sarah. She hesitated, and then she watched, for on this night her Stepmother was behaving unusually. Instead of pacing back and forth in agitation, waiting for Sarah to return, she simply stood beside the well, as if gazing into its waters. And as Sarah watched, it seemed more and more like her Stepmother was holding something in her hands.
Then a chill tickled Sarah’s spine, for she heard her Stepmother speaking, and another voice answered her.
Sarah ducked behind a bush and watched as her Stepmother spoke aloud to nobody, for there was no one else in sight. But as soon as her Stepmother stopped talking, a very deep, very gravelly voice slowly answered:
“When fishes fly and stones speak, whence shall come the lamb?” asked her Stepmother.
“From… the… Indian… trail…”
The questions and answers made very little sense, but Sarah knew at once that her Stepmother must have been speaking to the Severed Head, and her terror was great. “The Head,” Sarah reflected fearfully, “knows all. Even though my Stepmother can’t see me, the Head can. It knows I am here, and it will tell my Stepmother.”
Sarah lay hidden like a fawn in the bush, scarcely breathing as she listened to her Stepmother ask arcane questions of the Severed Head, and her heart stammered each time the Head slowly croaked out its reply. She waited in dread for her Stepmother to look towards the bush, her eyes searching the darkness for Sarah’s little figure huddled against the leaves. But her Stepmother never did look her way, nor did the Head seem to tell of her presence.
Safely hidden as she spied on her Stepmother’s conversation, her fear began to be replaced by curiosity. The Severed Head’s deep voice rang tantalizingly in her ears, and she thought, “I must see the Head. It has tormented me for years. I need to know if it is real, or just a fable of my Stepmother.”
Thus resolved, Sarah began to inch closer to the well. Her father kept a small cornfield at the edge of the clearing, and Sarah pressed herself down onto her belly and crawled between the tall stalks, trying to get close enough to glimpse the Head without herself being seen. She was aided by the moonless dark of the night, but all she could see was the well and her Stepmother standing beside it. And when she next heard the Head speak, her blood turned to ice-
“Someone… is… watching…”
Sarah froze in place. She remained still as a statue, watching with wide eyes and a quick-beating heart as her Stepmother quickly ducked behind the well. Scarcely could she breathe as she waited for her Stepmother to reappear, to rush after her and beat her, or perhaps to make good on her word and take off her head.
After a few dreadfully long moments, Sarah saw her Stepmother’s head pop back up and look around, scanning the field and forest for any sign of movement. Whatever she had been holding, she held it no longer. Then, she rose to her feet and hurried away towards the cottage, where Sarah feared that she would be on the lookout from the kitchen window, or any of the other windows in the little cottage, to spy her approach. But her fear was tempered by curiosity, for she realized that her Stepmother had left the Severed Head behind at the well.
Sarah stayed perfectly still for a long, long time, until the night grew cold and the clouds finally drifted away just enough for the brightest stars to shine through them. Still she watched the cottage, and it was only when the candles in the windows were finally burnt out that she left the haven of the cornstalks and began to crawl ever so slowly across the clearing towards the well. She feared to bend even a single stalk of grass out of worry that her Stepmother would hear it and come bursting out of the cottage to beat her, or perhaps even to kill her. But the cottage was quiet, and the field was quiet too save for the sound of Sarah’s own quick breathing.
When Sarah finally reached the well, she pressed herself against its stone sides and exhaled heavily in relief. Then she began to skirt around the side of the well to where her Stepmother had been, until her hand touched upon a pile of leaves and dead grass. Brushing these away as quietly as she could, Sarah felt a handle. This she tugged at, and a little wooden door opened up, revealing a secret chamber hidden beside the well. The chamber was two feet in depth, and at its bottom was a wooden box.
“This is what she keeps the Head in,” Sarah thought. And even though just moments ago she had been possessed by a desperate compulsion to see the Severed Head, now that it was there before her she could not bring herself to open the box. She was afraid to even touch it, so powerful and evil was it in her mind, but still she summoned the courage to grab its handle and lift it out of the secret chamber. It was heavier than she thought it would be, and made a dull thud as she hoisted it onto the grass.
“Hello?” whispered Sarah, thinking that perhaps the Severed Head might answer her from within the box. But the box, and whatever was held within it, remained silent.
Sarah knew she must rid herself of this evil artifact, but she could do nothing beside the well, in full view of the cottage and its many windows, any one of which her wicked Stepmother may have been peering out from at that very moment.
And so Sarah took the box by its handle and began crawling back to the cover of the trees, dragging the box after her. She went back around the well to where she had initially approached, so that the well might cover at least some of her retreat back to the forest. Stopping only when the box snagged on a root and she had to sit up perilously to unsnare it, she crawled across the cool grass, through the cornrows, and back into the forest.
Once she was hidden safely in the trees, she stood and hefted the box up to carry it down the dark path. She ran back through the woods the same way she had gone innumerable times before, knowing every sharp stone and every upbraided root, until finally she came back to the hollow oak tree where Rain had made his nest, and for a brief moment she had been happy for the first time in her life. The hollow in the oak’s trunk was just big enough to fit the box, and Sarah stood on her tippy-toes and hoisted the box over her head to deposit it in the hollow, where it would be safe until she figured out what to do with it.
When she finally returned to the house, she found her Stepmother was still awake, sitting in her rocking chair in the dark parlor, with a troubled look upon her face.
“Where have you been?” asked her Stepmother.
“I ran away and fell asleep in the forest.” replied Sarah truthfully.
Her Stepmother scowled. “Go to your room.”
Sarah nodded obediently and headed for the stairs, but noted how oddly her Stepmother was behaving, for usually she would fly into a rage and threaten to ask the Severed Head if Sarah was lying.
The next day passed without incident. Sarah performed all her chores as diligently as she ever had before, and completed them, oddly, without so much as a whisper of snide mockery from her Stepmother, nor any threats of her consulting the Severed Head and its great knowledge. When night fell and the waxing new moon began to rise, Sarah waited until her Stepmother blew out all the candles and went to sleep, and then she tiptoed out of her bedroom and down the stairs. She trotted quickly across the clearing and back into the forest, down the path all the way to the hollow tree, where she found the wooden box exactly as she had left it.
Sarah inspected the box again, and ran her fingers along its grainy wood, thinking about opening it. But once more, this she could not bring herself to do. She reached into her apron and withdrew a box of matches she had pilfered from a kitchen drawer. Striking one of the matches, she watched its feeble flame glowing in the dark woods, and then she tossed it into the hollow to set the tree alight.
Sarah stood back and watched as the flames began to consume the hollow oak tree. Its firewreathed branches turned crisp black, and the last remnants of Rain’s nest fell into the ever-growing inferno. Sarah stood in front of the tree through the night, basking in the rich warmth of the flames and watching as the box was burned to a cinder along with the rest of the tree. The fire died slowly, until only charcoal and embers remained, and when the ashes had cooled in the blue dawn, Sarah sifted through them and found not a trace of bone or teeth, nor any other signs that a Severed Head might have been held within the box.
The girl crept back home as the sun began to rise, and she climbed into bed to rest. When she awoke at midmorning, her Stepmother had not yet risen. Sarah cautiously ventured to enter her Stepmother’s room, and found the wicked woman bedridden. She was sick, and frail, and her mouth hung open slackly.
“Are you well, Stepmother?” Sarah asked.
At the very word, her Stepmother’s sickly face scrunched into an evil scowl, and she lurched out of the bed and began advancing on Sarah.
“I shall be, once I procure myself a new Severed Head!” said her Stepmother.
Sarah backed away from the door in terror and slammed it in her Stepmother’s face. She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen and quickly retrieved a blade from the kitchen drawer. Upstairs, she heard her Stepmother still fumbling with the doorknob, as though her hand would not fully obey her will. For a moment, she thought her Stepmother might have been trapped in the bedroom, but then the knob turned and she heard her Stepmother’s shrill screams of rage descending the stairs after her.
Sarah raced out the back of the house, her heart galloping in wild fear, and ran down to the well. As she fled for her life, she grew reckless, and tripped on the hole where the Severed Head had been buried. She fell with a pained cry, and when she tried to pull herself back to her feet she found that her ankle was sprained and she could run no more. Her wicked Stepmother rushed out of the house, holding an equally wicked butcher’s knife with which to chop off Sarah’s little head.
Sarah thought of all the beatings she had endured ever since her father had married this evil woman. She thought of poor Rain, her only friend in the world. She knew that at this moment, the end of her life, she had run as far as she could. And so she held up her knife bravely, and turned to defend herself.
Two shots rang out across the clearing. One moment her Stepmother was running at full speed towards Sarah, knife in hand, her face twisted in pain and hatred. The next, her Stepmother twirled, and her blonde hair flew about her like straw thrown from a bale of hay.
Sarah turned in the direction of the shots and saw her father standing tall in the clearing, holding out his pistol. He’d come home at last.
For many years, long after Sarah had grown into a fine young woman and married and had many children, she thought of the Severed Head and how it had held her life in misery.
Her Stepmother told her it had belonged to her first husband, a strapping lumberman, who more than likely was a decent man who only had the misfortune of marrying a witch. For this mistake, he’d suffered a fate worse than death- his throat slit in his sleep, and his soul trapped within his own shriveled head by black magic, imprisoned in a tiny coffin and buried beside a well under a bed of dirt and leaves, forced by an evil woman to spy on the sins of a young girl.
But then this selfsame girl had released him from his hellish fate.
Sarah never spoke to the Severed Head, herself, but she was quite sure that if it could say anything to her, it would say-
“Thank… you...”
POSTSCRIPT: This tale is a dramatic adaptation of an allegedly true story, originally reported on Dead Rabbit Radio- a daily paranormal, conspiracy, and true crime podcast- in Episode 871, titled “The Severed Head Knows Your Sins”. Several creative liberties were taken for the sake of the narrative. The author is indebted to Dead Rabbit Radio for providing the creative inspiration needed to write the tale you have just read. If you enjoyed this story or the show description interests you, please consider giving it a listen!
The cover art is by Trina Schart Hyman.