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I love Lucy

Tormented Tale 3
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Though only 12 years old, he walked with the syphilitic shuffle of a much older man. His head hung so low and his shoulders slumped so far forward they arrived well in advance of the rest of his body. Oh, that body. Amorphous best described the dough-like, lumpen shape that caused the tormentors in his life to universally refer to him as Pudge; a name one of his bullies stuck him with in Grade 2.

A dark cloud hung over him as he shambled home from school. It was joined by dark thoughts of fantasy revenge. He took solace, at least temporarily, imagining himself wrecking physical, chop-socky havoc on all of them. And by all, he meant all, for Pudge was a boy without a friend in the world, a boy who lived in his head and, because of his sharp mind — encased as it was in a profoundly dull body — still managed to feel superior to those who made his life a living hell.

The first time the old crone called out to him he didn't hear, so lost was he in his satisfying fantasies.

"I said boy, come over here," she repeated, more loudly.

Pudge stopped, looked over his shoulder and shook himself into the here and now. He wasn't sure what to make of the command, coming as it did from the gnarled old woman everybody in the suburban neighbourhood called The Witch.

"Me?" he implored?

"Yes, you, boy. Come over here."

Uncertainty froze Pudge. "The Witch wants me to come closer," he thought, trying to weigh his puzzlement against his deep-seated fear.

"Come over here; I won't bite," the old woman cackled.

Slowly, for he did everything slowly, he backtracked a few steps and walked gingerly up her weed-cracked walkway.

"What do you want?" he asked, skeptically.

"I have a proposition for you," she replied. "You know what proposition means, don't you."

Pudge was insulted by the question. He was certain he commanded a far wider vocabulary than the old woman ever would. And as repulsed as he was by her appearance — wild, gray hair that looked like she styled it with a Waring blender, rheumy pale eyes, food-stained clothes, crooked, brown teeth and bent, bony fingers — he felt curious, an unusual state for a terminally incurious boy.

In the absence of any response from him other than a dull stare, the old woman continued, "I need someone to help me set up my haunted house for Halloween. I need you."

"Why me," he asked?

"I see you walk by every day. You don't seem to have anything to do and no friends to do it with anyway."

"What would I have to do," he said, sounding exactly like a boy who'd spent much of his 12 years avoiding labour.

"Help me get the haunted house ready."

Unimpressed, he asked, "You mean like fake spider webs and skeletons?"

"Are you kidding? Haven't you ever trick-or-treated at my house?"

"No," he said with disinterest. "I usually stay home and hand out candy."

"Looks like you eat more than you hand out, Poindexter."

"If you're going to insult me, you can do the work yourself. My name's not Poindexter, it's Steve."

"Look, if you help me, I'll help you," she offered.

"How can you help me?" he seemed skeptical.

"You don't like the other kids, do you?"

"No."

"They tease you... make fun of you... torment you, don't they?"

"It's not so bad."

"Well, I can help you torment them back."

At the thought of tormenting his tormentors, he brightened.

"How can you do that?"

"Come in and we'll talk about it." She motioned him inside and entered herself.

Her house already seemed haunted. Dark and dank, everything inside was covered in a thick coating of dust that seemed long undisturbed. Half burned candles sat on tables and shelves everywhere; books lay akimbo on every flat surface, open to dusty pages. It smelled of must, cooking odours Pudge didn't recognize as food, and ammonia-tinged cat piss.

"Sit down," she motioned to a low stool in front of the chair she'd sunk into.

A black cat appeared, as if from nowhere; it's sudden appearance, not to mention its physical appearance, startled Pudge. It seemingly moved without its paws touching the ground. Half again as large as most cats, its infinite, inky blackness was punctuated by startling, blood-red eyes that burned in its head like fiery coals.

"Don't be afraid, Lucy's my familiar."

"I'm not afraid," he said. "I like cats. What's a familiar? Is that a breed?" Stealing a glance at the cat's hind end, he continued, "And why do you call him Lucy; he's a tom?"

"It's short for Lu-ci-fer," she pronounced it slowly, accenting the second syllable with a long 'i'. "A familiar is... well, let's just say Lucy assists me in ways hard to describe."

"Assists you with what?" he said, showing uncharacteristic curiosity.

"I'm a witch," she said. "Does that startle you?"

"Not really. Everybody thinks you're a witch."

"I mean I'm really a witch."

"Like casting spells and riding around on a broomstick?" he asked.

"Well, actually, I ride around in a Chevy but, yes, I do cast spells, concoct potions, conjure spirits, witchy kind of things."

"Cool," said Pudge.

"And that's how I'll help you if you help me," she said.

"Huh?" he said, dully.

"I'll give you power over those who torment you," she smiled a crooked smile.

Pudge wasn't sure whether she was kidding or not. "You can do that?"

"Of course. That's a pretty basic spell for a witch."

He brightened at the thought of having power over the bullies in his life but, as was his won't, hesitated. "I'm not sure...."

At that, Lucy jumped in his lap. As he reached out to pet the cat, it swiped its right front paw at lightning speed, opening up four parallel, oozing crimson lines on the back of his hand.

"Yeow!" he cried.

"Lucy, down," the crone said softly, motioning to the cat. "Here, I've got something for that," she said, soothingly to Pudge.

She went into an adjoining room while Pudge watched in discomfort as the blood began to pool on the back of his hand. "Hurry," he said.

She returned with a brown glass vial. Pudge pulled his hand away instinctively.

"Don't be such a sissy," she said. "It'll only sting a little bit."

With that, she daubed the foul-smelling, pus-yellow liquid on the back of his hand. It mixed with the blood and began to foam and emit small wisps of steam. Pudge felt his head grow light and the room begin to whirl; he thought he was going to throw up or pass out. Like fast setting epoxy, the mixture began to harden and the pain began to fade, as his hand grew weightless.

"Don't touch it for a minute," she said, resuming her seat. "Now, will you help me?"

Although he wanted to get up and run out of her house, Pudge found himself saying, "I will do as you ask," in a voice he didn't fully recognize as his own. "When do we start?"

"Right now," she said, shaking his fat, dimpled hand with her bony fingers.

And so they set to work. For four days, Pudge dutifully put in long hours after school. When one of the jocks saw him hanging around the old witch's house, word got around school and the torment was ramped up a notch or two, resulting in some new bruises and an almost black eye. It gave him the resolve to work even harder, help make the haunted house even scarier and believe even more the old woman could put an end to his torment.

When darkness came on All Hallows' Eve, children brave enough to ring the witch's doorbell were sorry they did. The door creaked open, revealing blackness within. A burst of light as bright as the sun — a large, electronic camera flash as it turned out — blinded them. Hands grabbed them by the shoulders and pulled them into the house. Icky things reached out and touched their faces. Foul smells filled their nostrils. Their hands were plunged into something that felt horrible and slimy and dead and rotten. Moans and groans and screams and cackles filled the air. Cries of other children punctuated the darkness as they were spun and twisted and pulled through never-ending, unseen horrors. More than one of them wet their costumes. It felt like it lasted forever but within 30 seconds, they found themselves pushed out the back door with a small bag of candy and a disembodied voice saying, "Happy Halloween as their senses slowly returned."

Scary as it was, a few wanted to go back and do it again.

Pudge laughed out loud with the feeling of vigour frightening them gave him. It was as close as he'd ever gotten to that sense of revenge he'd fantasized so often. It was his best Halloween ever.

When the night ended, he promised to return the next day to help the witch pack everything up. He didn't need her to ask because he expected that's when he'd get what she promised.

After working harder than he'd ever worked in his life the next afternoon, he asked, "Now do I get that spell you promised?"

"Already done," she said.

"What do you mean, already done? I'm still getting pushed around and bullied by those stupid jocks I go to school with."

"Have patience," she said, "Your time will come; your revenge will be complete. You will get your way and enjoy dominance over all who cross you, all who bully you, all who dare disagree with you."

"But I want it now... not someday," Pudge protested.

"You may want it now, but you'll enjoy it so much more when the time is right. Trust me. And now go." With that she hurried him out the door and disappeared back inside.

Pudge left feeling like a sap. He'd been had... again. "Witches," he thought. "How could I have been so gullible?"

But decades passed and his disbelief was slowly overcome. Like the old witch said, he got his revenge. He gained complete power over his bullies, silenced his detractors, wielded virtually unlimited control and had things largely his own way, even when it meant leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

Of course, he had to become Canada's 22nd Prime Minister to make it all happen but such is the magic power of the forces of darkness.



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