Finally, there is a scream. A noise of epic proportion. Students run into the shower, girls half-changed, or still in gym shorts, with hair pulled back.
“Oh my God,” they say. Two rush forward and pull Corina away. “Call the school nurse.”
“Get an ambulance. She’s having some sort of seizure.”
“That freak must have done something.”
The threads pulse in Corina’s neck, whirl around in the white’s of her eyes.
The future fades. Loss tightens her stomach. There will be no two of them, no bosom pals, no best friends, no more scent of Corina, even now the musk fades. Corina’s heels thwap the shower floor, her head arches back against the tiles. Again. Again.
She stands there, under the shower spray in the farthest corner. Corina’s head splats in a pool of blood.
Her arms itch. The threads coil underneath her skin, bursting with the urge to be set free.
Her legs throb. Her skin pulses with the need to explode.
The other girls stare at her, disgust reeking out of every pore. The gym teacher runs to Corina and starts CPR. She knows it’s too late; she’s killed the beautiful creature, the potential friend.
There’s nothing left to care about. Not herself, not anyone else, just the compulsion swimming inside her, the fibers wiggling through her veins, demanding release. Even her tears are full of them.
She lets go, the threads erupt, a pool of them, a flood, a tidal wave of delicate thinness, elegant creeping, shifting, sidling, out of the showers, through the locker room, into the hallways and classrooms, the cafeteria, the teacher’s lounge, the principal’s office, the school nurse, the guidance counselor.
Let them go. She just stands there and the quiver in her stomach, down below, erupts. The school starts to scream.
BURN THE WITCHES
K. Trap Jones
We have found ourselves in a big pile of disaster. The whole town has been flushed down the shitter like a two day old burrito. All they had to do was burn the fucking witches, but the morons couldn’t very well leave it alone. How the hell could the assholes screw up one simple task? It’s not rocket science, but unfortunately my collection of all-stars consists of a bunch of inbred hillbillies incapable of individual thought. Those damn witches have returned and they are pissed off beyond emotional repair.
A few days ago, the witch problem got out of hand and the local government allowed for a cleansing of the town. They called it a self-righteous avoidance of chaos or some shit like that. We just saw it as an opportunity to reap some of them voodoo spell casting demons without getting into trouble with the law. Hell, we’ve been doing it for years, but never legally. Everyone gathered around the courtyard to be sworn in as deputy witch hunters. Even those who we thought were dead ventured back into town. It was like a family reunion of sorts, only instead of sodas and cake, we each brought our shotguns and handmade explosives to the pot luck gathering. I even saw cousins that I never knew I had.
The mayor stood on the steps of the courthouse with two pistols buckled to his waist. He was the driving force behind the Annual Witch Hunt amendment on the ballot, but it didn’t pass. Then he opted for a Witch Hunt Day to be a local government holiday, but that didn’t work either. Instead, he waited until the witch population got completely out of hand. After a speech that basically mentioned how he was right all along, the mayor passed a Witch Hunting Season that would last only a few days each year. Everyone went crazy like a two dollar whore on quarter beer night. The gun shop had a surge in sales and we soon became the most heavily armed town in the whole state of Georgia. Townsfolk just sat on their porches, cleaning their guns and waiting for the season to open.
All the folklore tales were told at the local bar. They ranged from staking vampires to shooting silver bullets into the hearts of werewolves, but no one had a damn clue what to do with a witch. We all were somewhat familiar with the Salem witch trials, but we weren’t too sure whether they burned or drowned the sons of bitches. Drowning someone seemed too personal for most, the way you would have to hold them down and all the gurgling and shit, so it was determined that we would choose the honorable option of burning their corpses in a fire pit. Hell, we all loved bonfires, and roasting witch flesh made it all the more worthwhile. With the amount of beer flowing that night, a unanimous decision was not hard to come across. Most didn’t even know what they were voting for. It could’ve been a vote to have sex with a donkey and they would’ve still said yes. The plan seemed simple at the time. Drink, kill, burn and then drink some more. That was it.
Now, these dirty witches are not like what’s shown on the TV. They’re not the sexy, black-haired fine asses that people dress up as on Halloween. These fuckers infesting the outskirts of our town are nasty piles of human waste. I remember my first encounter with one. I was out in the woods hunting deer. I had a sweet kill shot on a large buck and as I walked to collect my meat, one of those straggly ass witches showed up and started feasting like a rabid dog at supper time. He used his long claws to rip into the belly of the deer and damn near stuck his entire face into the wound. My ego got the best of me at my younger age and I wanted my deer or at least the antlers so that I could hang them up. I took two steps forward and that long haired hippy freak pulled his face out with intestines and shit hanging from his mouth. I about puked up a belly full of jerky. He dove back into the disgusting meat piñata that he had made and I tore ass back home. Over the years, we just tolerated them until they started to venture into our town at night stealing our shit and basically freaking people out. They became brave. They shouldn’t have.
The hunting season would work like this. There would be no shooting during the daylight hours, because people had to work. Every hunter had to wear a reflective orange construction vest. This was a result of the near fatal deer hunting incident with the Harper boys last year. They thought it was funny to wear a handmade antler hat in the woods. The younger one isn’t going to be getting that leg back.
The hunting hours would be from eight o’clock in the evening to four o’clock the next morning. Each hunter would have a different color flag to mark and claim their dead. There would be no poaching of another’s kill. A flashlight would be given to everyone because we thought it would be a great signaling idea since no one had ever seen a witch carrying a flashlight before. If friendly fire did occur, which everyone knew that it would, then the shooter had to apologize. If a bullet grazed another, then the shooter owed them a beer. If a flesh wound occurred, then the shooter had to give up the pink slip to their truck. We needed all these rules and regulations in order to keep the whole thing legit and safe for all those involved.
The next day, all volunteer witch hunters gathered in front of the courthouse to sign up and receive their complimentary vest. The mayor added fuel to the fire by announcing that the highest kill count would receive $1,000 cash and a free meal at Rudy’s Barbecue. The crowd lit up with excitement. It was nice how the whole town came together in a time of need for such a worthwhile event. Giving back to the community was what it was all about.
People were counting down the hours until the official start-up of the first Annual Witch Hunting Season. The anticipation fed the winds and tormented the dreams of those involved. No one could sleep. Self-made shooting galleries helped those who needed target practice. Some of the weapons were quite insane and creative. There were trucks customized with spikes on the grill plate and mounted Gatling guns in the beds. One truck bed was filled with bottles of moonshine with rags sticking out of the tops. With every dip in the road that the tires went over, that truck bed rattled while hunters in the back tried desperately to light up a cigarette.
The courtyard became an antique gun show with everyone admiring each other’s weapon. If I was a small animal, I would’ve gotten the hell out of the town by now, because the sheer firepower that was about to light up the night sky was going to be more powerful than the time the fireworks vendor offered buy one get one free the day befor
e the 4th of July.
The armor that people scavenged together was a little crazy at times too, ranging from old high school football pads to stuffed leather motorcycle pants. One hunter, Anton, broke apart his patio table and duct taped the wooden planks to his body. It was not a bad idea, but he walked around like Frankenstein the whole day. The local baker had pie tins and cookie sheets tied to his midsection. Again, not a bad idea. He smelled great, but looked ridiculous.
The group of hunters was a collection of all ages. There were the elders who branded their WWII vintage weapons and even a M2 flamethrower that Rick Allen swore still worked, but I was not about to stand next to him with two tanks of gasoline strapped to his back. For some reason, everyone was dressed in camouflage. I think they thought that the witches would not be able to see them or perhaps it was the fact that most of their everyday wardrobe was, indeed, camouflaged. Regardless, they all believed that they were well prepared to bring the hammer of judgment down upon the flock of witches that had invaded our town. At that time, even I believed it.
The tower chimed eight o’clock, but you wouldn’t know it due to all of the sporadic gunfire of excitement. The time had come; the moment that we all anticipated. The First Annual Witch Hunting Season had begun. As everyone drove and ran off in different directions, it was apparent that we were missing one key point…the whereabouts of the witches. Yep, like a pack of bloodhounds with allergies, the army of hunters blindly headed out of the courtyard in a blaze of glory. The town council stayed behind to construct a fire pit in hopes that it would be used at the end of the night. The courtyard became a lowered trench filled with rotted wood and fallen trees. Another ditch was dug near the pit as a kind of waiting room for the corpses. On the outer wall of the courthouse, a large chalkboard resided with a grid displaying all the names of the hunters and their daily kill count. People who were not participating in the hunting betted on the outcomes and their favorite hunters based on skill level and stamina. Local restaurants and farmers set up food stands and carts to feed both the spectators and the hunters when they returned. It soon became a town event with a petting zoo and even cotton candy. The festival took hold of the community like a tightened leash around the neck of a drooling pit bull.
After the hunters had dispersed, I walked out of the courtyard and stood at the edge of the woods as the sun sank down behind the pine trees. The atmosphere seemed to come alive as the shadows shifted and the last remaining rays of sunlight faded. I had a 9mm handgun on my waist, a machete attached to my back, and a double-barrel shotgun resting on my shoulder. As the tall trees swayed and the breeze cooled, I lit up a cigar and watched the cherry burn. Random gunfire echoed through the night air. Flashlights could be seen waving about at a distance. It was an eerie game of hide-n-seek; we were the seekers and the witches were the hiders.
With one step, I was swallowed by the darkness of the woods. I was not sure whether I was wearier of the witches or all the crazed townsfolk that had a free license to kill. Either way, I continued through the dense trees. High pitched screams filtered with the wind and made my eyes flinch. They were close, so close that I could feel their aura. I could smell their shit-stained clothes. The temperature grew colder and my warm breath became visible before me. Not sure what prompted me to stop, but I did. Call it a hunter’s instinct or just paranoia, but something caught my curiosity and halted my stride. That was when I looked up and saw a lone witch residing in a tree just above me. I made no sudden movement as she was stalking me just as much as I was stalking her. The moonlight cast a blue haze and illuminated her. She was swaying from right to left and staring at me. I could hear her claws gripping and grinding deep into branch that she was perched on. I ran through a few different options in my mind, but tried to focus only on the ones that ended up with a dead, gutted witch. My shotgun was useless as long as she remained up there; I needed bait to move her out. Although I never liked sacrificing a perfectly good cigar, it became my only option. I slowly raised my hand and grabbed the cigar right after I took another hit. With my index finger, I flicked it through the air. The smoke trail and ashes lit up the darkness. It collided with the witch who let loose a terrifying scream, forcing her to leap downward towards me. My shotgun ejected an empty shell casing and her limp body slammed into the trunk of a nearby tree. I was not nearly as excited about killing my first witch as I was discovering that my cigar was still lit and salvageable. I wiped off the blood and returned it to its rightful spot in my mouth.
Prior to the season, everyone watched all kinds of movies and only a few read books involving witches. In all the stories, the witches were portrayed as regular humans that were capable of magic and cauldrons. What I shot in the woods that night was no human. It was more like a demonic creature that appeared human from afar, but up close, that damn thing was ugly beyond words. I didn’t even want to touch it at first, but it was mine to claim and certainly captured me a mark on the kill chart. Hell, I don’t even think that I would classify the beast as a witch. Not too sure what it was, but everyone else called them witches, so a witch was what it was. Regardless, the close range hit from my shotgun nearly beheaded it. The scatter blast tore through her right shoulder and neck area. Her head was still clinging to the body by what appeared to be her spine. I’m not an easily rattled person, but I had seen enough horror movies in my time to know that the monsters always come back alive. Since I had to carry the witch back into town, I thought it best that I cut off both her hands so that she could not use them to claw me to death if indeed she did have a final breath in her.
The night was filled with screams. I wasn’t sure which side they were from. I ain’t going to lie, I felt a little uneasy carrying that carcass over my shoulder. The stench was god awful and I could feel her blood dripping down my neck, but nothing compared to her nearly detached head swinging back and forth and hitting me in my lower back with each step that I took.
With my prize catch in tow, I walked back into the courtyard and discovered that I was not the only one who had gotten lucky. The waiting room trench was filling up. I rotated my shoulder to allow the corpse to rejoin the others. The witches in the trench were all different in appearance. They were both male and female, but all equally disgusting. At that moment, Bubba’s truck came barreling into the courtyard. The 4x4 tires were caked with blood and mud, which made a sort of sadistic camouflage coloring. He turned the wheel and backed up the truck to the trench then hopped down from the cab. Without saying a word, he unhitched the tail gate allowing the corpses of six witches to slide out. The smirks of those around were all that was needed to show praise for his results.
The hunters randomly brought their kills in throughout the night in order to get credit. As the sun began to rise and overcome the lingering fog, the corpses of the dead witches were tossed into the smoldering fire. Their skin crackled and blistered within the flame. As the flesh burned, there was an indescribable aroma that seemed to make everyone hungry. There was just enough time for the townsfolk to go home and clean up before heading to their daily work.
During the daylight hours, the town went back to normal except for the bonfire of witch bodies that continued to blaze under the sun. Throughout the town, stories of the witch killings were rampant through every store, restaurant, and auto garage. Each night, the trench of dead witches became completely filled and the flames feasted upon their flesh. The festival became more excessive with souvenirs and custom keepsakes. You could even jump into the trench and get tangled up with the corpses for a great photo opportunity. As soon as it had begun, it quickly came to an end. The fire pit was allowed to burn out and took several days to do so. Hundreds of charred skeletal bones mixed with heavy ash were all that remained behind. The mayor declared the bones as a sacrificial cleansing and ordered that they be taken deep into the woods and buried.
It took quite a bit of time before the adrenaline levels were reduced to the normal country level of shooting empty cans and drinking heavily, but it happened. A ce
lebration was in order and the local bar hosted an after party where the kegs were abundant and the tall tales were equally as numerous. We had no idea the night was about to take a turn for the worse.
From where I sat at the bar, I caught a glimpse of something ablaze through the window. Knowing that the bonfire was well snuffed out, I gulped down the last of my beer, ordered another and told the bartender that I would be right back. I went out the front door and pulled a cigar from my pocket and lit it. I closed my eyes to take advantage of that first toke and, as I opened them, I felt like I was dreaming. The fire pit was aflame once again, this time with townspeople being tossed into the fire. The screams were deafening, and then I saw them. Those damn witches had returned. Their flesh was back and they were completely covered in dirt. We apparently, and unintentionally, resurrected them by burying their bones. As they ravaged everyone in the open courtyard, there was no denying that they were extremely pissed off. Their claws were slicing through any flesh that was in their reach. They were leaping from person to person and mutilating those poor bastards beyond recognition. I saw one of them jump on a man’s back and, with their arms wrapped around his head, proceed to grab the upper and lower jaw bones and completely rip the man’s face in half. The remainder of his body still stood upright until the witch pushed it into the fire pit. The vision of brutality had me slowly stepping back through the door.
Everyone in the bar panicked and grabbed any weapons they could. Some were either too drunk or didn’t believe it and walked out front to see for themselves. We quickly shut the door behind them as it was only a matter of time before the witches came a knocking. The screams from the outside died down as a sign that there were no more townspeople left in the courtyard. Through a small crack in the wall, I could see the witches scatter in different directions. Random screams echoed as they found other prey. I couldn’t help but notice the irony. They mimicked their own demise by killing a person and throwing them into the fire.
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