The Bewitched Child of Veurne

Marguerite De Vos had a baby — a girl named Anna, barely two years old. Anna was a beautiful child, with dark eyes and rosy cheeks. Her mother, a widow for two years, did everything for the child, everything a mother could do. She fed it, washed it, sang it lullabies before sleep.

But one morning, without warning, Anna began to cry. Not the normal whimper of a hungry child. This was a crying that would not stop — hour after hour, day after day. Anna’s mouth was inflamed, covered in white sores that would not go away. She refused milk, she refused bread, she refused everything her mother offered her. She cried as if the devil himself was tormenting her.

Marguerite no longer slept. Neighbors came to help, but even they gave up. An old woman said the child was bewitched — that someone had given it poisoned food at some point. Marguerite, in desperation, took Anna to the priest.

Father Libert was a priest of the old school, a man who had seen much and was not easily frightened. He examined the child carefully, opened her small mouth, and looked at the white sores that covered her lips and tongue. He smelled them — the odor was wrong, corrupted, unnatural.

”This child is bewitched,” he finally said, but not lightly. ”This is no natural illness. This comes from outside, from someone who carries evil in their heart.”

”But who?” Marguerite begged. ”Who would do such a thing to my child?”

”Only God knows,” said the priest. ”But I know how we can help the child.” He turned away from Marguerite and spoke to Anna, not as to a child, but as to something much older. ”You ate something that was poisoned. Who gave it to you?” And Anna, though she could not speak, seemed to listen.

Father Libert brought Marguerite and Anna to the church of Saint Nicholas. It was a dark afternoon, shortly after noon. He said to Marguerite: ”You must stay here. Pray for your child. I am going away — I will be gone for a long time. Tell no one where I have gone. Wait for me until I return.”

”How long?” asked Marguerite, trembling.

”Until evening,” he said. ”Perhaps longer.”

The priest left. Marguerite sat alone in the dark church with her crying child, while the candles flickered and every shadow seemed to move. She prayed as never before, her lips moving silently, full of dread. Anna cried still, her small body convulsed with misery.

Hours passed. It seemed like days. Then, at last, Marguerite heard footsteps in the dark church. The priest returned, and there was something in his gaze that was different — something exhausted, something that spoke of things no priest should see.

Father Libert said to Marguerite: ”The child will now heal. But hear what I say: on your way home, along the path, you will meet a dog. A black dog. That dog is the sign of what happened. Do not look at it, say nothing about it, and simply go home.”

”But Father,” Marguerite began.

”No questions,” said the priest. ”You must trust.”

Marguerite took Anna and left the church. Anna’s crying had softened — not completely gone, but milder. On the way home, just as the priest had foretold, Marguerite heard the sound of paws on the cobblestones. She did not look, but she felt it — a black dog walked beside her, not threatening, but present. The dog remained with her until she reached her home. Then the animal vanished into the darkness.

That night, Anna slept for the first time in weeks. The next morning — Anna’s mouth was healed. The white sores were gone. The child smiled — a small, gentle smile.

No one in Veurne ever learned what the priest had done that evening, or what he had seen in the darkness. But people whispered that a certain woman from the town left shortly after, and that she never returned.