Witiko

Copyright © 2021 by Raven Blackfeather.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/18/2021

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Malina’s Diary Entries

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26   Malina’s Diary Entries

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37   Malina’s Diary Entries

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Also by Raven Blackfeather:

The Night Has Fangs

A Passion For Blood

Blood Lust

All can be found on her author page at:

amazon.com/author/ravenblackfeather

I

would like to thank my family for believing in what I am doing,

and listening to the stories I have written. They have sat through

many chapters, listening, to make sure I have believable characters,

enough detail, and just as much to give you nightmares for weeks.

To my husband, Donald, a special thank you goes out to you.

When I had an idea I had to write at that particular moment,

you stood by me. Thank you for understanding that the

writer’s mind never stops working. Thank you for encouraging

me all these years, and for believing in me, and what I am

doing. Your continued support drives me to excellence.

Je tiens à remercier tout particulièrement M. Phillips pour son aide

dans les lieux, sa connaissance et sa passion de la langue française.

Votre dévouement à l’enseignement de cette langue il y a tant

d’années a conduit à mon amour de la langue et à mon désir d’en

apprendre beaucoup plus. Je ne saurais trop vous remercier pour

les histoires françaises amusantes avec les personnages "manger de

la glace." L’apprentissage a toujours été une joie dans votre classe.

(For those of you that don’t speak French):

I want to send out a special thank you to Mr. Phillips for

his assistance in locations, and knowledge and passion

of the French language. Your dedication to teaching this

language so many years ago led to my love of the language,

and desire to learn many more. I cannot thank you enough

for the amusing French stories with the characters "eating

ice cream." Learning was always a joy in your class.

Finally, I want to thank everyone who has bought my books in

the past. Your continued support only drives me to write bigger

and better stories. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

Happy Reading!

She said I was crazy.

They all did.

My therapist, those at the psyche ward, my friends, what I have left of my extended and estranged family.

Crazy.

A complete nut-case.

Fruity.

Looney.

Bonkers.

I have been called all of them, and more.

My therapist, Sue Won Chung, has her theories. She is a petite little Oriental woman. Smart in her own way, but only through books. She cannot understand me. No one can. Not unless you have been through it yourself. Maybe not even then.

Unless you have snapped. That is what they said. Something in my head snapped when it happened. They do not know why, but they think it did.

I do not think so.

They let me go, so I am okay. At least, that is what they think. As long as they believe that, then everything will be fine.

I had years to perfect my talent of letting them only hear what they wanted to hear. What would get me released. Words that would set me free.

Free.

Free to take my revenge. Not on him at first. Never that. They would expect that. No.

I learned better with everyone I was locked up with all those years. I had plenty of time to plot my revenge.

My therapist said I needed to travel. To get away. To distance myself from all those memories.

I did.

And I still am.

I do not think she meant by becoming a truck driver. But that is what I am doing. Driving a truck.

Cross country driving. Seeing the sights. Enjoying the USA.

Watching.

Waiting.

Plotting my revenge.

CHAPTER 1

Malina’s Diary Entries

L ife.

What is life to you?

I can tell you what mine has been like. Hell.

My entire life has been hell from when I was really young. You just cannot imagine some of the things I have gone through in my life. Well, maybe some people can, but most of you, well, not unless you have lived it yourself. And I really hope none of you have to go through some of the shit I went through in my life. It was not a good one. No happy memories. None at all of my childhood. It was all like a living nightmare.

Most kids remember playing outside in the sun, going to the pool on the weekends and after school, playing at the park with their families, playing with their toys and playing with their friends.

Not me. My earliest memory was the wreck. I can still see it in full detail. Even this many years later. All the doctors said I would forget it in time. But how do you forget something as horrific as that?

Let me tell you... It was the most vivid detail I can remember of my childhood. I was only four years old, and my Dad was driving. My Mom was sitting in the front passenger seat, and my little brother and I were in the very back of the station wagon we were driving. This was long before seat belts were required to be worn by all passengers of the cars. We were bouncing around in the back of the car, and trying to get the truck drivers to blow their horns as they sped past us. Most of them did, and that had my little brother and me giggling with glee.

We were going up Black Mountain in North Carolina, heading to the mountains to see our grandparents. We made this same trip almost every weekend, so why would this weekend be any different?

I remember telling Dad it was hot in the back, so he rolled the back window down. My little brother and I stuck our heads out of the back glass to get some extra air as we were traveling down the road. We probably looked like a couple of shaggy dogs with our heads stuck out the back of the station wagon like we were! Our hair was longer than most kids were at that time. Our hair was being blown from the back of our heads to the front, mostly hiding our faces, and our silly grins. We did not care, nor did we have a care in the world at that time.

Black Mountain was really packed with traffic at this time of year, as it was Spring, and everything was in bloom. You could see all the new leaves on the trees, new flowers popping up all along the roadside, and the mountain laurel was just blooming out. Most people tried to stay in the right lane, as they were going slower, looking at the fresh scenery. Mother Nature was waking up from her long winter’s sleep, and she was showing the beauty of what she could produce in vibrant color.

Truck traffic was especially heavy at this time of the year. Most of the northern roads were too crooked for the 18-wheelers to travel. The fastest way for the truckers to get to the mountains in the western part of the state was going across Black Mountain.

Black Mountain was, and is, an especially treacherous road for 18-wheelers to travel. It is a steep mountain with lots of curves in it. Trucks end up having to gear down to almost their lowest gears to pull the mountain. Sometimes they actually have to use their lower gears if they are loaded heavy. Lighter loaded trucks can pull it easier, but they can never maintain the speed limit, no matter how hard they try.

On the other side, going down the mountain was even worse. They had runaway truck ramps built for trucks that burnt their brakes up trying to slow down on the curvy mountain road. There are pits dug on the side of the roads, and filled with loose gravel. When a truck hits one, the truck buries itself in the loose gravel. If the driver is going too fast, their truck can be totally demolished at the sudden stop they will make. I remember seeing one truck stop so quickly on one of the ramps that it totaled the front end of his truck. There was smoke boiling out from the tires of both his tractor and his trailer. I guess he burnt his brakes completely up. The smell was something I could never describe. It was something close to the smell of burning tires, but ten times worse. It made your nose burn and your eyes water.

Some of the ramps are not pits at all, but huge ramps made out of large gravel on the bottom, then looser gravel on top of that. It looks like a gravel version of a ramp you would make in your backyard to jump bicycles off. They are around 300 feet long, but have a barricade at the end of them, and a huge pile of gravel behind that. I guess that is supposed to stop them if they ever reach the top. I never saw one go that far, but I would guess they would stop long before they ever reached the top. If they did not, they had at least a 500-foot drop off the end of the ramp and mountain, before they reached the bottom.

Anyway, we were traveling this mountain, trying to get to our grandparents house in the western part of the state. Dad had to weave in and out of traffic to get around the slower cars and trucks that lined both lanes of the road. He was a good driver, so I did not worry about a thing. We had made this trip hundreds of times, and I knew he knew what he was doing. I had never seen the road as crowded as it was today. The road seemed like every person in three states was out for a drive to see the beauty of Mother Nature.

We sped past another truck driver, and both my little brother and I were pumping our arms frantically up and down trying to get him to blow his horn at us. He did, finally, but then laid on the horn and did not let up. I did not know what he was doing, but I could see the look on his face. It was something close to complete horror.

I turned around to look out the front window of the station wagon, and saw what the truck driver saw. There was a truck coming down the mountain out of control, his brakes and tires on fire. He had already jumped the median of the road, and was heading right for us. My Dad had nowhere to go. There was a line of slow moving trucks to his right, and a huge line of traffic directly behind us. I could see the trucks in the right lane trying to slow down even further to give my Dad a place to escape, but he was moving too fast to swerve to the right.

Dad jerked the wheel to the left, but it was too late. The flaming truck clipped the right rear of the station wagon, and sent us spinning across the median. I do not know how many times we spun in circles, but I kept seeing the flaming truck, the mountain, and a clear view of the other side of the road so many times I was getting dizzy. We were spinning out of control across the road, and into oncoming traffic. I felt several bangs against the station wagon as cars and trucks trying to come down the mountain hit us. They could not avoid us, and we were bounced around the road like a pinball in a pinball machine. I barely saw my Dad trying to get control of the station wagon we were in as we were all thrown around in the car.

I finally felt and heard another loud crash, and at that time, I did not know what it was. Now I do. It was us crashing through the guardrail on the opposite side of the mountain. Then, we were weightless. We were falling around 200 – 300 feet down the side of the mountain. I do not remember the impact at all.

The next thing I remember was waking up to extreme heat and screams. I looked around, dazed at my surroundings, and saw where it was coming from. Our station wagon was on fire, laying on its roof, and completely engulfed in flames. The roof was almost completely caved in, and you could barely squeeze an arm out of the window. I know that, because my Mom’s arm was out the window, and burning. I could hear my Mom and Dad screaming for help, and could smell the acrid stench of flesh burning. My little brother was nowhere in sight. I ran to the car, got as close as I could with the flames shooting up into the air, and tried to throw dirt on the fire, but it was not helping.

The car exploded. Gas was leaking from the punctured gas tank, and it went up in a fireball as big as a bomb. Everything was completely silent as I was thrown back up the mountain from the explosion. The sky went black as night with the smoke boiling out of the car, and I couldn’t see anything, not even my hand in front of my face. The breeze was blowing, and tried to blow the smoke away. As it did, I finally saw my little brother. He was impaled on a tall pine tree above me. His blood was slowly dripping onto my face from the high branches of the tree, joining in with the blood pouring from my broken and bleeding nose.

Finally, sound came back to me, and I heard screams and shouts from the road above me. Other drivers had stopped on the side of the mountain, and were trying to make their way down to help us. Only thing is, there was only me. I was the only one left from the crash. The screams of my parents had finally stopped after the explosion, and the only things I heard were the screams from the other drivers, and the fire still roaring.

Someone, a truck driver, maybe, picked me up, and tried to carry me up the mountain. It was so steep; he kept slipping with me in his arms. A group of people ended up forming a chain with their bodies, and they kept handing me off to a new person to get me back up the steep incline. I was laid out on the side of the road, awaiting an ambulance that someone said I needed. I had never ridden in an ambulance, and did not really know what one was at that time.

I finally got my first ride in an ambulance, but it was not what I expected. It had the flashing lights and the sirens, and serious looking people in the back with me, but I did not know why they looked so serious.

At the hospital, I do not remember much about that time. I remember getting there in the ambulance, then nothing until I woke up in a lot of pain. A nurse was sitting beside my bed, and was trying to keep me from moving. I do not know how she thought she could keep an active four year old from moving, but she tried. I found out I could not move much at all, and listened to what she had to tell me. She was talking to me as if I was going to understand everything she was saying, and I do now, but then, nope. I did not have a clue what she was saying.

When the wreck happened, apparently, I was thrown out of the car quickly, and knocked unconscious. My little brother was thrown out of the car as we went through the guardrail, and down the mountain. They said he died quickly. I had sustained a severe concussion when I landed, and had some bleeding of the brain. I was going to have to undergo several surgeries to lessen the pressure on my brain, or it would kill me. I also had several broken bones in both my arms, and my lower back was fractured. She told me I was going to be in the hospital for a long time, but I was going to be okay. Then I do not remember anything else.

Several months later, I was released from the hospital. My hair was finally starting to grow back by then. The itching from the stitches they had sewn my head up with after the surgeries had finally quit. They told me that my family was dead while I was in there, but I already knew that. I could still smell the smell. It was as if it was embedded in my nasal cavities, so I always smelled it.

I was sent to a foster home then. Dana and Brian Miller were their names. I met the foster parents while I was in the hospital, and they seemed nice. They always seemed nice, so I came to find out. And they were nice, for a while.

It takes a while for their true colors to show through.

They always do, eventually.

Everyone’s true colors show through in time.

Theirs was no different. They started out really nice and sweet, and generally caring, but then they changed. They became mean and vicious. It was as if they hated to look at me. Hated to be forced to take care of me. I was not any trouble, and tried to stay out of their way, but it seemed like by me just being there and breathing, I was irritating to them. It was only after the social worker found visible bruises on my arms I was removed from their care, and placed with another foster family.

The next one was the same as the first. Tracy and Cody White were the names of the second foster family. Nice and sweet at first, always putting on a good show. Then their true colors came out, and they became the devil incarnate. I think, if you looked hard enough, you could see horns growing on top of their heads. They were a lot better at making sure the bruises did not show on my body. My lower back was a common place for the bruise marks to show. Not like I needed any more pain to show up there. It ached every time it was going to rain, and I was almost in tears when the weather got cold. That was when they most like to hit on me. When it was getting cold outside, and my little body could not take the cold air, or temperatures. I could not help feeling the temperature more. I mean, really, I had my back broken in a wreck that wiped out my family!

That did not seem to matter much to them, though. They were uncaring and unfeeling towards me, and were only interested in how much money they were going to keep getting for having "that useless brat" in their house. I overheard them talking at the kitchen table late one night, drinking shots of Everclear, as usual. I had to go to the bathroom, and snuck quietly past the kitchen to get to the bathroom. They were at the table talking and drinking, and that is what they called me. I was six years old then, and I did not think I was that useless. I helped as much as I could around the house, and did everything they asked me to do. That really hurt my feelings, though.

I snuck quietly back to my bedroom, and waited until I heard them go to bed. Their bedroom was right across the hall from mine, and they were oh so noisy. I lay in bed for another thirty minutes, making sure they were asleep, and I could hear them both snoring loudly. Quietly, I got up, walked silently up the hallway, and to the kitchen. There I found the half-empty bottle of Everclear they were drinking that night. I opened the top, and started pouring the alcohol all over the floor of the kitchen. Then, I poured a line of the liquid all the way back to their bedroom door. They were still snoring, loudly this time. I tiptoed back to the kitchen where they kept the extra bottles of liquor, and grabbed a full bottle of Everclear. I poured a trail all over the house, ending around the bed of my foster parents. With what was left of the Everclear, I poured it on their bed. I lit their bedclothes, and them, with the candle they left burning beside their bed, dropping the bottles directly beside the bed. There was a slight whoosh from the bottles as I backed out of the doorway, as what was left in the bottles was ignited by the fire.

They woke up screaming, but the fire was too great for them to live long. I ran outside coughing. I smelled the smell of burning flesh again, and it reminded me of Dad and Mom. I knew it was not them, but the smell was the same. I knew I would not be beaten by this set of foster parents ever again. The only sound coming from the house was the sound of the fire roaring.

Sitting in the front yard in my pajamas, I watched the fire roar higher and higher in the night sky. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear sirens.

Paramedics, police and fire trucks lit up the night with their flashing lights. Neighbors gathered in their yards to watch the fire blaze out of control. Firefighters were saying there was no way anyone could have lived through that inferno. They said it was a wonder I managed to get out unscathed. I listened quietly to their conversations throughout the night. Finally, a social worker came to collect me, and take me to yet another foster home. She promised everything would be okay, and no one would be able to hurt me anymore.

If only she could actually keep that promise. I knew, deep down, she could not, but I could not tell her that. She would not listen to me anyway. I was just a child.

CHAPTER 2

S o, here I was in yet another foster home. The social worker thought this one would last a bit longer. I was introduced to my third foster parents, Nancy and Roger Davis. There was one other child here with me. A boy. He reminded me of my little brother, but he was a lot younger. This one was still in diapers, and could not walk yet. Could not even crawl. I was left a lot of the time to take care of him. I did not even care to know his name. He was not my responsibility to take care of, and I did not really know how. Nevertheless, I had to watch him when the foster parents wanted to lie down, or take a shower.

The social worker came by today. She said they had ruled the house fire of my last home accidental, and it was from them drinking on the way to the bedroom. She said they must have spilled a lot of the alcohol all over the place when they were going to bed, and continued to drink when they were in bed. At one point, they must have knocked the candle over, and it caught the alcohol on fire. She said that was what started the fire, and I was not supposed to worry about it, because it was not my fault, and was an accident. Okay. I would not worry about monsters beating a child being burnt up in a fire. I never said it, but I thought it. No more monsters in that house.

She asked me how things were going here. My new foster parents were standing in the doorway and would not leave, so I could not say anything. However, things were not going any better here than they had at the last place. The nasty old husband liked to give me a bath at night, and rubbed in places that he should not. It made me feel funny. I did not like that, but I could not say anything to the social worker while they were standing right there listening and watching. If I could only call her, like she kept telling everyone to do if they had any problems. But I could not. They disconnected the house phone when they went to bed at night, and I could not get out of the house to go to a pay phone. I did not have any money anyway. I did not like it there.

I stayed with them for the next six years. I spent my twelfth birthday at their house. I watched the little boy grow up, and they always lavished attention on him all the time. I was treated like the redheaded stepchild. I guess that was fitting, to an extent, since I had fiery red hair down past my shoulder blades. The little boy had been with them as long as I had been. Six years. They talked at the dining room table over dinner how nice it would be to adopt him. I used to ask if they were planning to adopt me as well, and I only got the response, No one wants someone like you! You are useless to everyone around you! That hurt. I really believed it then. That was another foster family that said that to me again. I could only hang my head down to keep them from seeing the tears welling up in my eyes. I know that is what they told me, but you could see a look in the old husband’s eyes that said something entirely different. I did not know what it meant at the time, but I was soon going to find out.

About a week into my twelfth year, I heard my door creak open in the middle of the night. I thought it was the little boy, as he sometimes came into my room to sleep with me after having a bad dream. I scooted over in the bed to make room for him, but someone sat on the bed much heavier than the little boy. I felt a hand go under the covers, and a heavy hand run up my leg. Another hand clasped hard on my mouth. I could feel the breath on my cheek, and I whimpered and opened my eyes, only to stare into the drunken face of the old foster dad. He whispered for me to keep my mouth shut and he would not hurt me, and to blink if I understood. I blinked, and tried to remain as quiet as I could. I could feel his fingers probing me through my panties, and pressing hard. I squirmed, and tried to get away from him, but he was much stronger than I was. He kept probing and feeling until he got past my panties, and I felt him slide his fingers up into me hard. I almost cried out, but his hand tightened on my mouth, and pressed harder. As if by some miracle, the foster mom called for him, and he left me whimpering and cowering under the covers in fear and pain.

School was the next morning, and instead of letting him drive us to school, I chose to ride the bus. I could see hate and resentment all over his face, but I did not know why he was looking at me like that. At school, I was still in a lot of pain from the previous night, and my teacher could tell. She sent me to the school nurse, and was asking a lot of questions about where I was hurting and why. She assumed that I might be becoming a woman, as she put it, but I told her I did not know anything about that. Suddenly, a massive muscle spasm hit me, and I doubled over. They called an ambulance for me, and I was once again rushed to the hospital to be checked out. My social worker showed up at the hospital. When I was finally admitted into a room, she came to see me. She told me the doctors had told her what happened with my foster dad, and she apologized extensively for keeping me in that situation. She said she was going over there right after she left to pack my things, and get me out of that situation.

Several hours later, my social worker showed back up at the hospital, bag in hand. She said that she had found me another home to live in, and they were really nice. Yeah, like I never heard that before. She said I would be able to go home with them tomorrow morning, and I would not even have to change schools.

So, that was what I did. To start with, Karen and Keith Johnson were really nice, but then again, so were all of my foster parents. To start with. It actually took them a few years to show their true colors. My foster mom, Karen, was mean as the devil to me, treating me as if I was her personal maid and slave. If she wanted anything at all, I was supposed to drop everything to get it for her. Not only was I her personal maid and slave, I worked all evening in the house, doing housework, cooking dinner, then doing dishes. My grades were slipping in school, mostly because I did not have the time to do anything but household chores. I never had time to do any homework. I did not have many friends at school, but the ones I did have tried to help me through my classes as much as they could. Usually, I was not getting in bed until around midnight, and was totally exhausted by the time my head hit the pillow. I usually fell right to sleep in a dreamless sleep instantly. I was fifteen at the time, and my sixteenth birthday was right around the corner. I had made the mistake of asking if they were going to throw me a sweet sixteen birthday party, and they replied, Why? You do not have any friends that would come to it anyway. Sad part was, they were mostly right.

Late one night, I was in bed sleeping soundlessly, and I felt my bed move. I knew instantly what that was, and started to scream when a hand shoved a pair of socks deep in my mouth, then wrapped a large strip of duct tape over the socks in my mouth. I was completely muffled and could not even whimper. I could feel the socks shoved so deep in my mouth I could feel them rubbing my tonsils. I could barely breathe. I knew it was my current foster dad, Keith, pressing his weight on top of me. I could only wriggle under him, trying to get him off me, but that seemed to please him even more. He reached down and ripped my panties off me, and plunged deep within me as hard as he could. I tried to scream, but the socks were keeping me from making a sound. When he was finally finished, he got up, threw my torn panties in my face, told me to clean myself up, and never speak of this to anyone else, or he would make it so much worse.

I did as I was told, and it was my dirty little secret for another year. Twice a week I could expect the same thing from him. He would sneak into my room while I was sleeping, shove a pair of socks in my mouth, and duct tape my mouth tightly shut. Then he would rape me. Sometimes it was once and he was done. Sometimes it went on for hours and hours. I never told anyone what he did to me, because I did not know what he meant with his comment that he could make it a lot worse.

Not until one day, the guidance counselor and social worker both showed up at the front door. It seemed