The wits leech The wiTs leech J u l i a a . G i r a r d Even the dogs stopped barking. Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book The wits leech The wits leech Julia A. Girard Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The wits leech T he wind howled through the empty streets of Abner, Nebraska, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into your bones. A bit- ter, unnatural cold. The town was small, barely more than a wide spot in the road—but it had once felt like home. Now, there was something in the air, some- thing foul, a tension that no one could shake. No one talked about it directly, but you could feel it in the way people glanced over their shoulders, the way the old clock tower stood still, its hands forever frozen at midnight. There was no movement in the town ex- cept for the wind. Even the dogs stopped barking. Tommy Wells, the sheriff, stood on the porch of the old diner, his coat pulled tight against his chest. The last of the sun’s light was fading, swallowed by Julia A. Girard the dark, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the darkness was coming from somewhere deeper. He had spent his life in this town, but tonight, it felt dif- ferent, thicker, somehow, like it was pressing against his ribs. There was no one left to talk to. Not really. The town had been emptying out for years, families leaving, one by one, like rats abandoning a sinking ship. And Tommy? He was the last rat still clinging to the wreckage. A car drove by on the far end of Main Street, tires screeching on the cracked asphalt. Tommy’s gaze fol- lowed it until it disappeared. “Hell of a night, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind him, low and steady, like it had always been there. Tommy didn’t turn. “You’re late, Dan.” Dan Travers, the town’s lone bartender, stepped up beside him, his hands stuffed deep into his jack- et pockets. His eyes flicked nervously to the road, then to the dark stretch of trees that lined the edge of town. He looked over his shoulder as though ex- pecting something to emerge from the shadows. His voice dropped a notch, the words coming out in a rush. “Better late than never. You hear the news?” The wits leech Tommy grunted, rubbing his neck. His fingers were stiff with tension. “News? In Abner, that’s like finding a needle in a haystack.” Dan’s lips trembled, but he kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. “There’s something wrong, Sheriff. Peo- ple... people are acting strange. Real strange.” Tommy frowned, his fingers tightening around the edge of the railing. “What do you mean strange?” Dan hesitated, then glanced around, making sure no one else was close enough to overhear. “Not like themselves. One minute they’re fine, then... boom, they snap.” He swallowed hard, his voice lowering even more. “You saw Old Man Hargrove earlier to- day, didn’t you?” Tommy nodded, remembering the old man with his gnarled hands clutching a rusted pipe, his wide eyes filled with nothing but confusion and terror. Hargrove had been muttering something about ghosts, about whispers, his mind lost somewhere in the past. Tommy had chalked it up to the heat, peo- ple getting a little delirious in the dry air. It wasn’t uncommon in the summer months, but something about it had nagged at him. He couldn’t remember if he’d seen the old man with the pipe or if it had just been some trick of the light. Julia A. Girard “I saw him,” Tommy said. “What about it?” Dan’s voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the wind. “He nearly killed his daughter, Sher- iff. Didn’t even remember it. Said something about hearing whispers. Didn’t even know what he was doing. And then... like nothing happened. He just... stopped.” Tommy’s stomach tightened. He stared into the night, trying to steady his breath. “Whispers?” Dan nodded, his face pale, a sheen of sweat across his forehead despite the cold. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might be watching them. “That’s what peo- ple are saying. Whispers. Voices in their heads, tell- ing them things. Terrible things. Telling them to hurt people. To hurt themselves.” Tommy’s heart rate quickened, his eyes narrowing. He hadn’t heard anything about this. Not from any- one else. But something about Dan’s fear was enough to put him on edge. “You think it’s some kind of... sickness?” Tommy asked, though he didn’t believe it. Not entirely. Dan’s eyes flickered with doubt. “Could be. I don’t The wits leech know. But it’s spreading. Every time I close the bar, I hear more people talking about it. I heard it from Doris Miller this afternoon, she said her brother, Steve, he’s been hearing things for weeks now. Not voices, not exactly... but... suggestions ... like someone was planting thoughts in his head. Then he started throwing things at the wall. Got so mad, he started breaking his own bones. And he couldn’t stop.” Tommy’s skin crawled. The wind howled louder now, as if responding to the growing unease in the air. He looked over at Dan, then down the street. The houses were dark, every window an empty eye star- ing out at the world. The sound of something ...some- one, scraping against metal echoed from somewhere down the road. Before Tommy could respond, a scream tore through the silence. It was long, drawn out, filled with pure, unrestrained terror. It came from the di- rection of the old mill, that abandoned hulk of rusted iron and rotting wood. Tommy’s hand instinctively went to his holster, fin- gers brushing the cold metal of his revolver. He took a step forward, his boots creaking on the old wood of the porch. The scream echoed again, raw and des- perate. Julia A. Girard “You coming?” Tommy asked, his voice low and steady, though his pulse was beginning to race. Dan hesitated, his feet rooted to the ground. His face had gone ashen, and his eyes were wide, full of something Tommy couldn’t place, fear, recognition, dread. He took a step back, his breath shallow. “You really think that’s what it is?” Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. They both knew. The wind howled again, rattling the loose shingles on the diner’s roof. Tommy felt it, felt the weight of the dark around them, like something was waiting , something patient, something hungry. The darkness seemed to close in tighter, like it was pulling them in, drawing them toward the source of that scream. It felt like the town was alive, aware, like the very ground beneath their feet was trembling in anticipation. “We’ve got to check it out,” Tommy said, his voice grim, his hand on the door. He knew that if they didn’t go now, they might never go at all. Dan swallowed, his gaze flicking to the dark stretch of road ahead. “I don’t know, Sheriff... This isn’t just in people’s heads. This is something else. Something... old.” The wits leech Tommy turned toward him. “I don’t care what it is, Dan. People need help.” Dan hesitated, then gave a weak nod. “Yeah, well, if we don’t find out what’s going on soon, I’m not sure anyone’s going to be around to need help.” They stepped off the porch together, Tommy lead- ing the way. The wind picked up, swirling around them, as though trying to guide them, or to warn them. A flicker of movement caught Tommy’s eye. It was just a shadow in the distance, near the mill. Someone or something, was moving. “You’re sure you want to do this?” Dan’s voice was tight with fear, but his feet kept moving. Tommy’s eyes locked on the shadow, his mind rac- ing. “There’s no choice.” And as they walked into the growing darkness, the wind whispered again soft, insistent. “ Come closer... ” It wasn’t the wind. It was something else. And it was waiting for them. Julia A. Girard I. The wind howled across Abner, its icy fingers sweeping through the town’s desolate streets, as though it was urging the residents to stay locked in- side. Tommy Wells felt the bite of the wind against his cheeks as he and Dan Travers made their way to- ward the old mill. Every step seemed to echo in the hollow quiet, the air thick with something unnatural, a sensation that clawed at his chest and left a bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn’t just the wind that felt wrong tonight. It was everything. Tommy adjusted the grip on his flashlight, the beam cutting through the growing dark as they trudged over the gravel. The scream they’d heard earlier, sharp and terrified, had long since faded, but the sound still echoed in Tommy’s mind. There had been something too raw about it, too real. It wasn’t the kind of scream you heard every day in a town like Abner. It was the kind of scream that stayed with you, gnawing at you long after the sound itself had died. The wits leech “Stay close,” Tommy muttered, the weight of the night pressing down on his words. Dan was just behind him, his breath coming in short bursts, his face pale under the yellow glow of Tommy’s flashlight. “What the hell do you think we’ll find?” His voice wavered with uncertainty. Tommy didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure what they would find, but he was starting to suspect that it wasn’t something he was prepared for. Some- thing had shifted in the town, something dark and insidious. And it had begun with that scream. He could feel it in his bones, the creeping sense that the town was no longer just a collection of buildings and roads, it was something alive, something aware. The old mill loomed ahead, its silhouette against the sky like a decaying carcass, the windows dark and hollow. Tommy’s breath fogged in the air as they ap- proached the rotting wooden door, creaking in the wind like a warning. “You think it’s the same thing as Hargrove?” Dan asked, his eyes darting around, as if expecting something to leap out from the shadows. “Old man seemed... off today. Talking about ghosts and voices. And now this...” Julia A. Girard Tommy grunted, stepping forward to push the door open. It gave way with a loud screech, and the smell hit him immediately, mildew, stale air, the scent of something long forgotten. But there was something else there, too. A sharp, metallic tang, like blood or rust, that seemed to cling to the walls, to the floor- boards. It made the hairs on Tommy’s neck stand up. “Keep your eyes peeled,” Tommy said, his voice low. He stepped inside, his flashlight casting a pale beam over the interior. The mill was abandoned, nothing more than a skeleton of its former self. Dust hung in the air like a veil, catching the light in strange pat- terns, making everything feel distant, unreal. It was as if the building itself had been waiting for them, its silence a kind of invitation. They moved deeper into the building, the floor- boards groaning under their weight. Tommy’s boots crunched over debris, his flashlight flicking over old crates and broken windows. And then, from some- where in the shadows, a noise. A whisper. Dan froze, his body rigid. “Did you hear that?” Tommy’s heart skipped a beat. He paused, holding The wits leech his breath. The whisper was soft, barely audible, but it was unmistakable. It wasn’t the wind, not this time. It was something ... someone else. “Stay quiet,” Tommy ordered, his voice barely above a whisper. He swept the beam of his flashlight slowly across the room, but there was no one in sight. The shadows seemed to grow deeper the further the light reached, swallowing everything whole. Then the voice came again, this time clearer, more distinct. “Help me... please...” Tommy’s pulse raced. It was coming from the far corner, hidden in the darkness. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice firmer this time, but still strained with unease. The silence that followed was oppressive, suffocat- ing. For a long moment, Tommy wasn’t sure if he’d even heard anything at all, if the wind had somehow played tricks on his mind. But then, it came again, more urgent now, more desperate. “They’re... inside me...” Tommy’s breath caught in his throat. He moved swiftly, but cautiously, toward the corner, his hand Julia A. Girard on the grip of his revolver. The voice was faint, but it had an eerie quality to it, like it was coming from everywhere, seeping through the cracks in the walls, wrapping around them like a strangling vine. “Who is it?” Dan’s voice shook as he stepped clos- er, his hand hovering over his own gun, though he hadn’t drawn it yet. “What the hell is going on?” Tommy didn’t answer him. He was too focused on the shadows, on the trembling figure crouched in the corner. The flashlight’s beam landed on her, illumi- nating her huddled form, her back pressed against the wall, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her head was down, her dark hair obscuring her face. “Mary?” Tommy’s voice cracked as he took a step forward. “Mary Hargrove?” The woman looked up, her eyes wide and filled with terror, but there was something else there, some- thing hollow. Her gaze seemed distant, as though she weren’t really seeing him, but something beyond him, something he couldn’t grasp. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her lips trembled, as though the words were stuck, struggling to break free. The wits leech Tommy crouched beside her, his hand hovering over her shoulder, unsure whether to touch her or not. She flinched at the motion, but didn’t pull away. Her face was pale, her skin clammy, her eyes wild with a fear that Tommy had never seen in her before. She looked... empty . Like something was missing. Like something was already inside of her. “Mary...” Tommy said again, softer this time, trying to calm her, trying to make sense of the situation. “What happened? Where’s your father?” Her eyes darted around the room, as if she couldn’t focus on one thing for long. “I... I can’t...” Her voice was barely a whisper, shaking. “I... can’t make it stop...” “Make what stop?” Tommy asked, his voice gentle, but growing more urgent. His heart was hammering now, a sickening knot of dread forming in his stom- ach. “The voices...” Mary’s hands twisted in her lap, her fingers clawing at the fabric of her dress. “They won’t stop. They keep telling me... telling me to... to hurt them... to hurt myself...” Tommy’s blood ran cold. The hairs on the back of Julia A. Girard his neck stood on end. This wasn’t just fear. It wasn’t just some episode of madness. Whatever was happen- ing to Mary... whatever was happening to everyone in Abner, it wasn’t normal. It was something darker, something more insidious than he could understand. “Voices?” Tommy whispered, his mind racing. “What voices, Mary? Who’s telling you these things?” Her eyes flicked toward him, wide and frantic. She opened her mouth to speak, but before the words could form, she suddenly lurched forward, her hands grabbing hold of his arm with terrifying strength. “They’re everywhere,” she whispered, her breath hot and foul against his skin. “They’re in my head. In all of us. They’re inside.” Tommy pulled back instinctively, but Mary didn’t let go. Her grip was like iron, her nails digging into his jacket. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and for a moment, Tommy thought she might lose con- sciousness. But then ... then, the whispering came again, louder now, clearer, like a chorus of voices, all speaking at once. “Help us... kill them... kill them all...” Tommy recoiled in horror. His gun was in his hand The wits leech now, but his finger was frozen on the trigger. The world seemed to tilt, and for a moment, it felt like the ground was moving beneath his feet. He had no idea what he was dealing with—no idea what kind of monster could twist a person’s mind like this. But one thing was clear: whatever was happening, it wasn’t going to stop with Mary. It was just beginning. And Tommy knew, with chilling certainty, that Ab- ner would never be the same again. Julia A. Girard II. The sun had barely risen when Tommy Wells stood in front of the sheriff ’s office, his boots sinking slight- ly into the morning dew-soaked ground. The town of Abner looked as it always did—small, sleepy, un- touched by time—but there was something different in the air today. Something thick. Something heavy, like the humidity of a storm that was about to break, though the sky was clear. The air felt like it was hold- ing its breath, waiting for something to happen. For something horrible. Tommy had always been good at reading people, at picking up on the subtleties of their expressions. But Mary Hargrove, her , he couldn’t get her face out of his mind. Her wide, vacant eyes, and that desper- ate whisper. She hadn’t been herself last night, that much was certain. And it wasn’t just the fever or the sickness. No, something had taken root in her, some- thing was inside her. He couldn’t ignore that nagging feeling at the back of his mind, the way her voice had cracked when she said, “They’re inside.”