This is an idea I posted some time ago, that I never really took anywhere. Essentially, the plot would revolve around two characters attempting to uncover a murder mystery. Simple enough, but I'd like the journey to become rather sinister and twisted as the story develops, with touches of supernatural elements along the way. Nothing is set in stone, feel free to bring your own ideas or discuss the premise in any way.

... and with that, I was suddenly struck with an overwhelming pit in my stomach; it was as though a tumour had suddenly exploded within my gut, and the urge to vomit was only beaten back by the fact that my throat felt as though it had closed entirely. I stopped breathing, and I could hear each tick of the clock as though the hands were grinding across stone. The edges of the drearily grey walls seemed to expand beyond the peripheral of my vision, everything blurring out of shame expect for the one thing I wanted so desperately to pull my gaze away from. Her eyes. They stared back, unblinking and almost vacant – no, not vacant; it was as though they were looking through myself, captivated by something that I couldn’t see, but I had no doubts at that moment that what they were seeing was no more a figment of their imagination than I was. It was real, and for the briefest of moments, as the world spun around the cold confines of the room, I could swear that I could feel it too. But just like that, everything stilled; I had blinked, and it was as though nothing had happened at all. To say I hurriedly left the ward would have been an understatement. I finished my notes, and reported the details to the lead physician. She was clearly insane, I recall informing him – not safe to be left roaming the streets. That was that. I didn’t sleep that night, and haven’t slept well for many nights since. What concerns myself, or rather, chills me to the bone, is that whilst I had no doubts as to the clearly damaged mental state of the individual, when I was sat in that room with them, staring into their eyes as though there was nobody else in the world, I felt something in the air. Whilst I should be institutionalized myself for even entertaining the thought, I often wondered as to whether whatever they were staring at, whatever had captivated their attention so completed, was really just a figment of their deluded subconscious, or whether I myself was deluding in convincing myself that I didn’t feel it too.

John Baxter, Personal Journal - Mrs Dermot Case File - September 6th, 1954

December 23rd, 1961. It's been four years to the day since you were institutionalized for the murder of your entire family. There was never any trial - you were dragged from the scene, and found yourself confined to the decrepit, harrowing halls of Bellevue Psychiatric Asylum for the Criminally Insane. The murder of your family, which the tabloids so eloquently described as a massacre, has only just left the minds of the small town you came from. Deep within the woodland, the Asylum and its deranged inmates are kept away from the general populace, miles away from anywhere. But that's not where the story begins. On this very night, another family has found themselves the victim of a massacre not unlike the one that struck your family. This time, there were no survivors. Detective John Baxter, the first on the scene, finds himself making the brisk, weary drive up to Bellevue, knowing the only lead is currently occupying one of the wards.

The man and the dog hadn’t eaten a decent meal in what felt like a year, so when the dog came bellowing around the bend of the dusted hallway with a rusted tin of dried fruit in his maw, the boy was more than elated.

“Good job, girl.” Ruffling his hands through the scraggy white hair of the dog, whom looked back at him with a blissful happiness that the boy wished he could share; he often wondered if the dog understood the world. He’d hoped not.

That night, under the flickering light of a hushed fire, the man and the dog feasted upon the wondrous sensations of apricots, peaches and a yellowish, sour fruit he couldn’t quite name. The dog spent its night with its nose and tongue cleaning the can of any scraps and scrapes that remained, occasionally nudging it towards the man, who would simply smile and decline. His stomach didn’t growl that night, and neither did the dog.

When morning broke through the cracks and crevices in the concrete structure, the man packed away his few possessions; a tatted, worn sleeping bag, and an empty rucksack.

The streets were surprisingly empty that day, so the man let the dog wander off from his side. It ran through gardens and yards, danced around swing sets and buried its head into every garbage can it could find. The sky was brighter than it had been in a while, and the dismal clouds that usually fogged it departed in lieu of a lightly blue canvas. It was cold, still; the wind brought a coastal breeze with it, and the cries of seagulls scavenging a baron sand echoed over the suburbs. The streets was askew with rusted cars taken by natures grasp, vines and weeds reclaiming the once pristine yards and turning them wild. The dog was in her element, naturally, but the man looked around with eyes filled with memories and loss. He remembered one house to have been home to his childhood sweetheart, Susan… her last name escaped him. He walked up her porch, recognising her father’s once sparkling prize of a Chevrolet, now tarnished with dirt, creeping rust, and blood, left idly in the driveway. When he reached the jarred rotten door, the dog whimpered at his feet and pulled at the back of his trouser leg. She was right, entering wouldn’t be wise. They returned to the street and carried on.

Streets and suburbs soon turned into country roads, and sound of the sea at their backs soon turning silent. That night they slept under the counter of a desolate gas station, neither of them daring to make a sound as slumped footsteps scraped the pavement outside. Neither of them got much sleep.

By the time morning arrived, the sounds had departed. The man checked the road whilst the dog waited under the counter, and when he was sure that it was safe, a soft whistle brought the dog to him. They’d found nothing of value within the gas station, other than a ripped and bruised teddy bear that the dog insisted on bringing with them. The man had agreed, and placed it in his bag. Every now and then, the dog would disappear into the underbrush that marked the farmland roadside, not reappearing for hours at a time. The boy knew that she would not be far, so he did not mind; the dog’s curiosity had brought the spoils of salvation more than once, after all. He’d hoped to find a farmhouse, or the remnants of a barn at the least, but for the miles that the road stretched onwards they were met with nothing but a repetitive cycle of un-kept wheat and corn that would soon be ready for harvest, had there been anyone to work the fields.

The man and dog soon came to a halt along the road, when a rustling of a bush caught their attention. The dog began to growl, arching its back and revealing its teeth. The man lowered his hands, hushing her and nudging her behind him. He fiddled through the pockets of his coat until his palm greeted the cold steel of his gun. He wasn’t sure how many bullets he had left. Less than three, surely. It was a comfort to him, just as the torn teddy bear was to the dog.

The girl that emerged from the bush couldn’t have been any older than six. Her hair was twisted and torn at the scalp, the pale of her skin peeling and flaking at the bone. Her mouth opened to broken teeth and a blackened tongue, and her eyes were as lifeless as the dead.

The shot echoed for miles, and the man still heard it when he slept.

This idea would revolve around my character escorting your character to be tried and sentenced to death as a witch. Whether you're an actual witch or not is up to you, but the focus of the story would be the two conflicting characters journey through a dark and broken land, ravaged by fear and poverty.

Nature had long since reclaimed the ruin, its grasp rooted into the crackled stone of the relic to times gone by. The narrow, dirt-trodden passage that snaked towards the entrance, surrounded on either side by the same dense nature, disappeared into darkness through the caved doorway, the fingers of vines and bed of moss ran tracing inside with it, fading into black. The stars above provided little light through the thick foliage, and only the torch guided their path from the whispers and eyes that watched from the wilderness, surely ready to engulf them were it to fade. Raylan placed one hand upon the aged stone of the ruin, the walls cold to the touch. It had been far too long since another living soul had entered this place, where the wardens of the dead stayed vigilant. All except one living soul who, Gods be good, still lurked the halls of the catacombs that riddled this place. Thrusting his hand into the cracked entrance and into the darkness, the warm glow lit the steep steps that lay before them, the end invisible, only leading to more darkness. If the tales held true, she would be awaiting them within this place, but whether they were prepared for her greeting was another question.

“Thom, leave the horses,” Raylan spoke, his eyes not leaving the abyss that awaited at the bottom of those shadowed stairs. “Let us meet this Witch.”