The Witch of Morne Diablotin

The Scholar’s Arrival

Dr. Elias Mercer stepped off the ferry, feeling the weight of the humid air press against his skin. Portsmouth was alive with the scent of the sea, the chatter of merchants, and the rhythmic crash of waves against the wooden docks.

A historian and folklorist from England, Elias had spent years chasing myths, unraveling old stories, and piecing together truths hidden beneath layers of superstition. But Morne Diablotin... it was different. The legends surrounding the mountain spoke of a curse, a presence, something real.

And he needed to see it for himself.

As he walked through the village, eyes followed him. Some curious, others wary. He was an outsider—his crisp linen shirt and leather satchel marking him as someone who did not belong.

At the local inn, he met Madame Celeste, an elderly innkeeper with dark, knowing eyes. She placed a bowl of steaming fish broth before him but said little when he asked about the witch.

“Some stories should not be disturbed, monsieur,” she muttered, gripping the rosary around her neck. “Not by you. Not by anyone.”

But Elias had come too far to turn back now.

That evening, he found Jules Baptiste, a local guide who agreed—reluctantly—to take him up the mountain’s lower slopes.

“It is one thing to go,” Jules said, his voice quiet. “It is another to come back.”

The Shadow in the Mist

The deeper they climbed, the quieter the jungle became. The usual calls of birds and the chirr of insects faded into an unsettling silence.

Jules walked ahead, his machete slicing through the thick undergrowth, but his eyes flickered constantly toward the trees.

“Do you feel it?” Elias asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

Jules stopped but did not turn around. “You should not ask such questions.”

They reached a clearing, and in the center stood an old abandoned hut, half-buried in vines. The thatched roof had long since surrendered to the rain, and moss clung to its wooden beams.

“This is where she lived,” Jules said, voice barely above a whisper.

Elias stepped forward, running his fingers over the decayed wood. “Who was she?”

Jules hesitated before answering. “Her name was Isabelle Montrose. A healer, once. Some say a witch. The villagers…” He exhaled, his expression darkening. “They wronged her.”

Before Elias could ask more, Jules went rigid.

His knuckles whitened around the machete’s handle. “Someone is watching us.”

Elias felt it too—that unmistakable sensation of unseen eyes in the trees. The jungle was alive with a presence, something just beyond the veil of mist.

Then—

A laugh. Soft. Feminine.

It came from everywhere and nowhere at once.

And just like that, the air turned cold.

The Curse of Isabelle Montrose

Jules grabbed Elias’s arm. “We must go. Now.”

Elias hesitated. Every instinct in him screamed to stay, to see. But Jules’s urgency was infectious.

They ran, their footsteps swallowed by the damp earth. The mist thickened, curling around them like unseen fingers. Elias swore he heard footsteps that weren’t theirs.

By the time they reached the lower slopes, Jules looked shaken. He didn’t speak again until they returned to the village, sitting at the inn’s wooden table, his hands trembling.

Madame Celeste saw his face and sighed. She sat across from Elias, eyes heavy with old memories. “You will not stop until you know the truth,” she said.

Elias leaned forward. “Tell me.”

She nodded slowly.

Isabelle Montrose had once been a healer, known for her remedies. The villagers sought her out for everything—illness, fertility, protection from spirits.

But when the Governor’s son fell ill and died under her care, the whispers began.

*Witch. Murderer.*

Fear is a powerful thing. It turns grateful hearts into cruel ones.

One night, the villagers dragged Isabelle from her home. They tied her to an ancient silk cotton tree and left her there, alone, beneath the full moon.

By morning, she was gone.

And then the deaths began.

One by one, those who had taken part in her punishment disappeared. Some were found in the river, drowned, their faces twisted in terror. Others wandered into the jungle and were never seen again.

Those who survived spoke of whispers in the mist.

Of a woman’s laughter.

The Witch Awakens

Elias couldn’t sleep that night.

Long past midnight, he left the village, lantern in hand.

The jungle welcomed him too easily. The usual sounds of life had returned, but beneath them was something else—something that listened.

He reached the silk cotton tree. Its massive roots curled like the fingers of some ancient god. The wind stirred its branches, whispering in a language older than time.

Then—

She appeared.

A figure stepped from the mist. Isabelle Montrose, or what remained of her. Her face was pale as bone, her eyes black voids, her hair a river of night.

She did not walk.

She floated.

Elias could not move.

“You seek answers,” she whispered, her voice like rustling leaves. “But knowledge is a burden.”

He tried to speak, to apologize for what had been done, but his throat closed as the wind howled around him.

She raised a hand—

And the world collapsed into darkness.

A New Legend

Elias awoke at the foot of the mountain, days later.

Jules and Madame Celeste found him, delirious, muttering in a language not his own. His eyes were dark, his skin cold, even under the tropical sun.

He did not speak of what he had seen.

But he never left Dominica.

To this day, they say he roams the jungle, whispering to the wind. Listening to voices only he can hear.

Some believe he became part of the legend.

Others say he is watching, waiting for the next soul foolish enough to seek the Witch of Morne Diablotin.

And if you ever find yourself near that cursed peak—

Beware.

Some stories should never be disturbed.

The End.