seen from United States
seen from Philippines
seen from Iraq
seen from Türkiye
seen from France
seen from Chile
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Kenya
seen from Uruguay
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
Zip me Farah and Megan
“A drabble about two characters dressing each-other”___________________________________________________________
Characters:
Farah Salgado (POV), Megan Scott.
Words:
1′559
Rating:
PG
Link:
https://jumpshare.com/v/0X2RNilKnzVv22DL0ez1
___________________________________________________________
‘Control’
(This may be my favorite book 2 scene so far. It needed to be shared.)
Characters: Kyle Hausman (POV), Dr. Franklin Blythe, Emma O’Sullivan, Alexandre Simard
Words: 4184
Warning: Blood & Gore
Link: https://justpaste.it/1ihj8
27 Lawrence and Marie
Prompt: “I’m Pregnant”
Characters: Marie O’Sullivan (POV), Lawrence O’Sullivan
Words: 1885
Canon Date: March 1st, 1999
Link: https://justpaste.it/1htev
(I did this one first because I almost immediately knew how I wanted it to go. I think it turned out really sweet! At least I hope!)
@dramionefan66 said she wanted to read the rest of the snippet I shared-- so naturally I spent a day and a half finishing up and editing the rest of the chapter. I put it in a link because of the length.)
Characters: Zac Salgado (POV), Zoey Huber (POV), Spencer Green, Nathan Blanchard, Courtney Wallace, Lawrence O'Sullivan, Marie O'Sullivan, Mick Salgado, Kevin Carnell, Marilyn Blanchette, Kyle Hausman (Briefly) Words: 6,915
Warning: Violence, gore, swearing, death.
(P.S-- about Marilyn... it felt right.)
Just a tiny bit of dialog I really wanted to share, because I haven’t posted writing in a while.
Characters: Zac Salgado (POV), Lawrence O’Sullivan Words: 1,105
The illusionist's back hit the wall, his illusions sparking and then dropping to the floor like curtains and evaporating, leaving nothing but the empty hallway, barely lit by the flickering ceiling lights. "I know everything about you!" Zac continued to holler, though his voice was hoarse. The illusionist fixated a glare on him that put an uncomfortable chill in the pit of his stomach, his upper lip curled and let by hissing, winded breaths. "You're an Irish immigrant. You're from McCreery Caster Community in--" Zac licked his teeth, firming his feet on the ground."--in Ireland. You came here to study illusionism in Quebec." The illusionist's brow quirked, but not from shock. He almost seemed confused... He looked as if he knew nothing of what Zac was talking about. Had the information been false? Or maybe he had the wrong guy? But no, the illusionist had responded when his name was called, and he had to trust Crystal. He even had to trust Kyle on this one. "... but you quit," he continued. "You met your wife, got married and you quit illusionism to be a nurse." The illusionist snarled and shook his head, looking down at the floor, then down the hall, then back to Zac, cutting through him with a poisonous glare once again.
"Which makes sense, dude, I get it. You had a wife, you were gonna have a kid... you were poor as shit, you wanted to provide for them, right?" He held the illusionist's gaze for a moment, before his boldness faltered and he found himself talking at the ground, his eyes on the illusionist's legs, watching for any movement. "What I don't get is why you'd sign yourself over to the bad motherfuckers, handing your wife over to them right after." The illusionist's arm shot out, spitting out an energy projectile that Zac hurried to block, only to feel the static buzz by his ear and hear it crackle itself out against the wall behind him. Zac retaliated with a jolt that forced the illusionist back against the wall again, this time slamming his skull against the stone. He snarled and took a bit of extra time to open his eyes again, but still stood firmly in his place. "When do we get to the part where you shut up and kill me?" the illusionist muttered through his teeth. Zac gave a laugh, feeling himself completely possess the upper hand. "I need information. Why, Lawrence? Scared I'll touch on something personal?" he asked, taking a step forward, magic buzzing under his fingernails. "Like how your daughter disappeared off the face of the earth around the exact same time? Nobody knows what happened to her, but I bet you do, eh, motherfucker?" The illusionist sucked in a breath, his eyelids twitching, but his eyes no longer piercing into Zac, now they glazed over, seeming to peer a thousand miles away as his upper lip, no longer snarling, now trembled. "You poisoned your wife. Did you kill your daughter, too?" Zac asked roughly, in his 'CD Officer' voice. All at once, the illusionist's face softened into something dead, expressionless. He turned his eyes back to Zac and he breathed out a huff that could have been a scoff, or a clearing of his throat, or even a sob. It was too faint to tell. "I killed them all," he answered calmly; smooth as marble, returning that icy feeling to Zac's stomach. Zac readied himself, then he lunged. The illusionist flinched, then put both hands up, pushing back as Zac leapt onto him, gripping his wrist and forcing red magic up his arm. The illusionist grunted and slammed his own blow of magic into the side of Zac's head, forcing him back, one hand over his ringing ear. "You know nothing about me or anything around you, kid!" he shouted in a hoarse but forceful voice that reverberated down the hall, becoming a high shrill as it faded. Zac jolted upright, ready to launch himself forward again, but he looked up and found the image of his opponent skewed and warbled. He wiped at his eyes but couldn't clear his vision. "Go home, Zachariah! Your mother doesn't want to lose another son, I'm sure." "What?" Zac gasped, feeling a ball form in his chest. He curled his fists, urging magic through his bones until it rattled in his knuckles. "Did you have something to do with the fucking bomb, too?" The blurry image of the illusionist fizzed out, then came back completely clear, standing before Zac before contorting again. He was draining out. Soon he’d have to stop casting entirely. He’d be weak and Zac could easily take him down. "No," he answered after a moment, his voice sounding distant, though he still appeared right before Zac's eyes. Zac felt a catch in his throat, which he quickly coughed out. "You're lying." "Why would I?" "So many people died, man!" Zac's voice rose, despite his efforts to keep firm and composed. "I lost half my family! My dad!... I lost my brother-- my twin brother, my best friend, you fuck!” Zac pulled energy from his chest and released it in one angry, erratic burst at the illusionist. The magic crackled and smacked into the illusionist's chest, but instead of flying back, he disappeared, sizzling out with a glow and then leaving nothing behind but more static in the air. Zac stepped back in confusion, eyes darting to every reachable corner of the hallway. He eyed the sealed doors and even the ceiling, but found nothing but shadows. Then, a hand gripped his shoulder. He began to turn, but felt his shoulder stop against something small and hard. He forced down his fear and the thought that it was most likely a gun to his back-- and he straightened up, clenching his jaw. "Crying won't bring him back, kid. Nothing will, now." Lawrence O'Sullivan's rasping voice spoke on the back of his neck. "Go home to the ones you have left-- before you drag them into this. This is me being kind-hearted. Trust me." In a quick flash, Zac's vision filled with a sharp blue that swallowed up his view of the darkened hallway and burned his eyes. He cried out in shock and threw both hands over his face, blinking and scratching at his eyelids. Finding no relief, he began to panic, shooting magic out in every direction he could, hearing it snap and crash into the walls, but hearing nothing else, and seeing much less, until the blue leaked down his face and he found himself alone, crunched up on the concrete floor, completely alone.
Scene
Scene: Waking Up In The Witch Farm
Characters: Mick Salgado (POV), Dr. Franklin Blythe, Lawrence O’Sullivan.
Words: 1,421
Type: Horror
Warning: Gore, cussing, blood.
Feedback Request: Hello, yes, I need validation/general thoughts about this one because I’m a little unsure.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
MICK
His entire vision was red. Bright, searing red. Was he awake? It felt like he was awake, yet no matter how hard he pulled at his eyelids, they wouldn’t open. Normally he could jolt himself awake by tensing his muscles, but he could barely locate them, let alone move them. It was like his consciousness was nothing but a bright, red, motionless orb.
Until the pain began.
It started as a dull throb, down in the bottom left corner of his mind. Then, it began to burn, pulling his attention entirely to one-half of his body. His arm. His arm stung and burned and ached with an alarming pain.
“Ah!” he heard his own voice cry, although he felt no sound leave his lips.
“There he is,” another voice sounded, reminding him of the existence of the right side of his body.
Slowly, the bleariness began to drip away, he felt himself materialize and felt the pain intensify and become far too real.
This time, when he groaned in agony, it was completely voluntary.
“Alright, watch his vitals. We can begin soon.”
Vitals? Was he in a hospital?
All at once, his memories burst through the cloud of haze in his mind. The mall, the explosion, the falling pillar, his father, his brother, they all rushed back to him.
Did he survive? Did they come back for him? Of course. They had to.
“Z-Zac?” he croaked out feebly. He forced his eyelids open but immediately squeezed them shut to block out the intense, burning light that met his eyes. He moved to cover them, but his arm snagged, completely immobilized. He tried his injured arm and found it just as stiff, then his legs, then his torso, but he found his entire body paralyzed.
“What?—I can’t…” He opened his eyes again, squinting weakly in the powerful light. “I can’t m-ove!” His voice came out crackling, broken.
A figure stretched an arm over him, but he couldn’t make out their face, the arm reached across his torso and pulled on a thick, dark strap that stretched across his chest, pressing him into the bed.
Mick looked down at himself in a panic, finding more straps holding his wrists and ankles, and another long, heavy one pinning his legs just above his knees. One extra strap secured his upper left arm, just above a bulky, blue cast that went all the way down to his hand.
“Wh-Where…” he gurgled. He wanted to ask ‘where am I?’, although it seemed obvious he was in some sort of hospital. But then why was he restrained? He’d been in the same polyurethane cuffs before--when he’d been violent, but never this many, and certainly not while injured and unconscious.
And why was he in so much pain? He was certain he could still feel the crushed bones in his arm, piercing his skin.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he finally managed to catch a glimpse at the faces standing around him. One was an older man, at least fifty, who stood, over Mick, touching his restraints and tapping different points on his body.
The other man sat by the bed, eyes on a tiny monitor on a stand. His vitals, Mick realized.
The first man was a stranger, but there was something familiar about the second man. The shape of his face rang a bell in his mind, yet certain other features failed to match up.
Then, the man lifted a hand and tapped a point on the screen, and another hand came up to nudge the other man’s arm, and the absence of a finger on that hand abruptly alerted him.
“Jack? What?”
The man’s eyes met his for only a second, and then they returned to the monitor. This man was blue-eyed and wore his hair short and dark, but it was definitely him.
“You ought to call Lawrence by his real name, now, Mikail,” the older man said dryly.
“101 bpm,” Jack spoke in a monotone voice that was almost as out-of-character as the rest of him.
“He should be fine.” The man gave Mick a look-over. “I must say, he is a perfect candidate. You can practically smell the rot on him. Good job, Son.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Mick yanked on the restraints. “Where the fuck am I, asshole!?”
Jack reached off to the side, and Mick growled in frustration.
“You need to—I’m really fucking claustrophobic, man! And it’s because of shit like this! Please, just tell me where the fuck I am!”
“The farm,” the man answered vaguely.
“The fucking what?!” Mick yanked on his wrist-cuffs, sending a jolt of pain up his injured arm.
“Oh god!” he croaked. “Fuck!”
Jack turned back towards him, loudly peeling a strip off of a roll of duct-tape. The man furrowed his brow at him.
“She’s sleeping.”
“Ah.” The man nodded, and Jack bit off a section of the tape with teeth that were no longer yellowed.
“What are you doing?!” Mick shouted. “Fuck off! Keep that the fuck away from me!”
Jack gripped Mick’s head forcefully, pinning it down with one hand. Mick screamed and struggled, but couldn’t stop Jack from adhering a long piece of tape over his mouth and around his jaw. Then, a second piece over-top of it, muffling his screams of fear and frustration.
He watched with wide eyes as the pair eyed the monitor again, then exchanged a glance before Jack turned away again, turning back, with something shimmering in his hands, which he passed to the other man.
“Thank you, Lawrence.”
Mick focused on the object in the man’s hand as he brought it into the light.
A scalpel. Mick gasped and shouted uselessly into the tape over his mouth.
Jack reached over Mick, lifting the bottom of his shirt to expose his stomach. His heavy bruising from the falling debris of the shopping center shone in the fluorescent light. Mick squirmed, trying to turn himself away from them. But the best he could do was suck in his stomach when the man gently pressed a latex-gloved hand into his implant scar.
“No post-traumatic relocation of the implant that I can see.”
‘Don’t touch me’ he was desperate to scream. But all he could manage was a muffled garble of sound.
Jack disappeared for another moment, returning with a bottle that he tilted into a ragged cloth, soaking it so thoroughly that it dripped audibly onto the floor below.
“Can you be a bit more fucking careful, O’Sullivan?” the man grunted.
“I’m sorry,” Jack answered, his voice still completely devoid of emotion, as he sloppily ran the cloth over Mick’s stomach, coating it with an icy-cold solution that immediately burned his nostrils.
“140 bpm,” Jack announced, putting the cap back on the bottle and disappearing from view once again.
“Alright. Let’s get this done so I can go home and get my dinner.”
The man’s hand pressed into Mick’s stomach, and he fought and struggled with all the energy in his broken and bruised body, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. But he couldn’t stop a thing.
The scalpel glimmered in the light and then disappeared behind the man’s hand.
To say that the pain that followed was unlike anything he’d ever experienced would be an understatement. This pain was tearing and brutalizing, and easily a thousand times stronger than anything he could have imagined. It forced his head back hard against the table and left him with no ability to even struggle, no ability to do anything but scream.
He could feel every single sensation as the blade severed his skin just above his hipbone, and the man’s fingers prodded inside the opened wound. His limbs jerked and fought involuntarily, and he just kept screaming, long after he had oxygen in his lungs.
“Jesus Christ,” a voice spoke, but he was beyond the ability to differentiate who. “Why do they always piss themselves?”
“Cauterizer.”
“He’ll pass out any second, Blythe.”
“Let him.”
“Wasn’t thinking to stop him, Blythe.”
Mick whimpered out the last of the air in his throat, and when he sucked in his next breath, his head started to spin, tilt and drop. He strained to regain his vision, but his eyes were too filled with tears and he was far too dizzy to make out a thing.
‘Help!’ he cried out in his head, though he barely made a sound beyond a quiet whine. ‘Oh god, help me.’
“Got’cha!” a voice announced, and blackness swallowed Mick’s consciousness up.
Finished Chapter
Scene: Megan Captured
Characters: Megan Scott (POV), Kyle Hausman, Kevin Carnell, Mick Salgado, Marilyn Blanchard, Lance Young.
Type: Horror
Words: 4914
Status: Edited
Trigger Warning: Blood, violence, cussing.
Feedback Request: Is this frightening enough? Is the dialog enjoyable? Anything specific? Etc.
Megan swung in the doorway, poking her head into the TV room. As expected, Kyle had gotten comfortable on the far end of the couch, his bad leg rested on a pillow on the coffee table, brace off and laptop open on his lap, the screen casting a blue glow over his frowning face.
“Hey,” Megan called. He stopped typing, but didn’t answer.
“Hey,” she repeated, stepping into the room and waving her arms. Kyle sighed, pinching his nose under his glasses to show his annoyance at her presence.
And people called her dramatic.
“What, Megan?”
“I’m bored. Let’s watch a movie or something.” She flicked her eyes towards the TV.
“No.” Kyle kept his eyes on the laptop, although he hadn’t started typing again.
“Please?”
“I’m busy, Megan.”
“Busy with what, Kyle?” Megan deepened her voice, mocking him.
“I’m baking a fucking cake.” Kyle rolled his eyes and he started typing, although the way he tapped lazily at keys made it obvious he wasn’t actually writing anything.
“Mmm. I love cake.” Megan crossed the room to the wall-mounted TV and the tall tower of DVDs beside it. “Well, I’m watching a movie. So, if you want any say on what I put on in here; speak now, or forever shut your yap.”
“There are four other television sets in this house,” Kyle sighed. “Why do you have to use this one?”
“Surround sound,” Megan answered, turning her finger in a circle in the air.
Kyle sighed a second time, shutting his laptop. He reached for his cane, which laid unfolded on the coffee table, but Megan jumped forward to pull it out of his reach.
“Megan!” he hissed. “Don’t touch my things!”
“Stay.” She pointed the cane at his face. “Or I’ll show your mommy your cigarette stash under your desk.” She pulled her phone from her sweater pocket and waved it in the air. “I’ve got photographic evidence!”
Kyle’s eyes popped open and his brow tensed. “They help me write. Give me that!” he grabbed at the cane in his face, she allowed him to yank it from her grip.
“Yeah. Because Janet’s gonna care what they help you do.”
“Why are you blackmailing me so that I’ll hang out with you?” He asked. “Aren’t any of your many friends doing—Oh right. Pardon me.”
Megan scoffed. “Whatever.” She slapped the phone down on the corner of the table and squatted down by the DVD tower, running a fingernail down the cases, scanning the titles.
“Wanna watch somethin’ scary?”
“Whatever will get you away from me faster.”
Megan rolled her eyes again, slipping a movie from the tower and standing up, spinning around with it clutched in both hands.
“How about ‘Saw’?” she asked, holding it out. “Have you seen it? It’s great. This guy saws his foot off! Right at the ankle! He has to choose between dying in some terrible deathtrap, and living as a gross cripple the rest of his life. Oh right—Pardon me.”
She smiled sweetly, watching his jaw harden.
“Personally, I think he chose wrong,” she added on with a pout.
Kyle glared back at her for a moment, and then a smirk spread across his awful, smug face. Although the anger never left his eyes.
“Sounds great,” he said. “Pop it in.”
“I will!” Megan huffed.
“Good. Looking forward to it.”
“Awesome!”
Megan turned the TV on and popped the DVD in the side, feeling Kyle’s condescending smirk on the back of her shoulders the entire time. She didn’t actually want to watch ‘Saw’ with Kyle. She loved horror flicks, sure. But that was part of the problem. Anything she enjoyed, she knew Kyle would pick at and over-analyze until it wasn’t enjoyable anymore. But she wasn’t about to lose.
“I’ll make popcorn,” she said as she headed back to the hallway, smiling at the image of all the color draining from Kyle’s smirking face.
“Whatever. Just know that we’re not going to hold hands and comfort each-other.”
Megan waited until she was out of his line of vision, and then she angrily mouthed ‘blah blah blah’ all the way down the hall and to the kitchen.
The kitchen felt surreally desolate late at night. She usually only saw it in the early mornings, when her father and Janet rushed back and forth, somehow still bumping into each-other in the wide spaces between the kitchen island and the granite counter tops as they hurried to get their coffees and lunches and head to work—or in the evenings, when Janet was preparing something on the stove and Megan’s father sat slouched on the barstool, ripping his thin, red hair out over some papers in his hands.
Now, it was empty and dark and open enough that she was sure she’d hear her voice echo back if she called out. The windows surrounding the dining area were inked almost completely black except for the distant sparkle of far-off neighbor’s windows.
She couldn’t decide if it was beautiful or eerie.
Megan rummaged through the cupboards and pulled out the box of popcorn. She fished out the last bag and chucked the box at the recycling bin. Turning the bag in one hand, she took a glance at the calories while her other hand popped open the microwave. She shrugged. She’d earned it. Her father decided not to pick her up from school and Janet was working late, so she’d walked home.
After sliding the popcorn bag into the microwave and setting it to two minutes, she turned around and checked herself out in the reflection on the refrigerator’s metallic surface. She pulled her cute cashmere sweater down over her hips so it hugged her waist more tightly, and she twisted this way and that, trying to get a better view.
The sound of the front door unlocking made her jolt and look around to make sure nobody saw. She glanced at the clock on the stove. 11:42. Janet and her dad weren’t usually back before 1:00.
Megan readjusted the bottom of her sweater, and she started headed back for the archway, poking her head out to get a peek just as the door opened.
She only got a slight glance at the people in the doorway, just enough to see two masked figures that were certainly not Jacob and Janet. She backed away, breath halting.
“Tsss!” a scratchy voice hissed. “Quiet! Idiot!”
Oh God. People were in their house. People with their faces covered. The possibilities of a burglary weren’t that unlikely in their neighborhood. But what would they do if caught? Shoot?
At that moment, the microwave beeped, and without a thought, Megan darted for the broom closet by the basement door. She pried it aside as silently as she could, only leaving herself enough space to squeeze in before she slid it shut behind her. She spun around, holding a hand over her mouth and trying hard not to stumble over a mop bucket or broom handle.
‘They just want our valuables,’ she assured herself, peering at the empty kitchen through the slot between the door panels. ‘They won’t look in a broom closet. They’ll just take some stuff and go. They probably don’t want any more trouble than I do.’
The microwave beeped a second time, and Megan clenched her eyes shut. When she opened them again, someone was in the kitchen, then another, and then two more.
‘Oh god. Four?’
Megan leaned forward a couple of inches to get a better view, and her throat swelled shut.
The intruders were three men and one woman. Each were clothed in ragged, stained fabric and each wore either a hooded sweater or jacket—and a scarf or bandana over their mouths. They breathed loud, crackling breaths that would have given them away, had their strong scent, which permeated the barrier of the closet door and stung her eyes, not beaten them to it.
Witches. Four of them. Megan dug her fingernails into her cheek to keep herself from squeaking.
One of the males was considerably bigger than the other two, he stalked past the others and examined the microwave, which beeped back at him.
“It’s this,” he said in a sharp voice, yanking open the door and pulling the inflated popcorn bag out and holding it at arm’s length for the others to see. They didn’t seem as interested.
“Not important,” the female hissed. “Did you figure it out?”
The large witch lifted his other hand. In it, a long and clunky-looking gun. Megan was pretty sure she recognized it. The kind that shot witch-copper barbs. Why would they have one?
“Nah; it’s all fucked,” the witch answered, tapping the back of the gun and then holstering it at his side.
“Hey!” Kyle’s voice sounded from back in the TV room, and all the witches’ heads spun around.
‘Oh no. Oh no. Kyle’. Megan bit down on her tongue.
“Was that the door?” Kyle called. “Megan?—Are Janet and Jacob home?”
The witches glanced between each-other, but stayed silent.
“Megan?”
There was a long pause, and then the sound of Kyle’s cane tapping on the floor.
“Hello?” he called. His voice sounded closer.
‘Go away, Kyle!’ Megan screamed in her head.
“If you’re trying to scare me; it’s a tad pathetic.” Kyle’s voice grew nearer and nearer, along with the tapping of the cane. “There’s very little you can do that I haven’t seen. I’ve dealt with pranksters with a far greater capacity for—“
Kyle appeared in the archway, and stopped dead in his tracks. The witches didn’t lunge. They didn’t have to. Kyle didn’t move. He just stared back at them, blankly. Megan ducked and twisted her head, squinting and trying desperately to get a better view. As if a better view would change what she was seeing. But it was still just Kyle, standing in the archway, eyes wide with terror but no part of him doing anything about it.
‘Go, Kyle!’
The female witch was the first to go for him. She pushed past one of the smaller males and leapt at Kyle, disappearing out of Megan’s line of vision. Kyle flinched and dropped his cane, which clattered loudly to the floor, but he did nothing else but gape and stammer as the witch grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him into the room. He stumbled and started to fall forward, but another witch grabbed him and the two shoved him against the wall. Still, Kyle did nothing but stare.
The largest one crept over to where the cane had dropped. He picked it up and swished it around.
“Huh. Look at this!” he spun around to face Kyle, who gawked back at him, face drained completely white. “You don’t look like no geezer.”
He paused. “Hey! That picture in the hall’s your mum, ain’t it? You got the same eyes. Think she’ll show up? I’d love to meet her!”
The other witches snickered.
“Hey!” the large one hissed. “Answer!”
In a quick flash, the witch whacked Kyle in the side with the cane, hard enough that the sound cracked throughout the entire kitchen. Kyle reached out and caught himself on the counter before he could go down, but all that came out of him was a wheeze. Then—a second time. The witch struck the cane against Kyle’s arm. This time getting a quick grunt.
Megan suppressed a whimper, pressing her other hand over the first and ignoring how long it had been since she took a breath.
“Good pain tolerance,” the female witch said with surprise.
“Kinda boring,” the big one sighed. “Maybe it don’t hurt as much as it looks.”
He then gave the witch beside him the same treatment, whacking him in the side with the cane, and this time— getting a loud yelp in response—and a louder one when he used both hands and slammed the cane against his back. The witch dropped down on his hands and knees and groaned, causing the bigger one to throw his head back and cackle.
Megan had never heard a witch’s laugh before, and she never wanted to again. It was so piercing that she nearly considered putting her hands over her ears instead of her mouth.
“Alright, get up!” The witch kicked the smaller one in the side, and the smaller one jumped to his feet.
“You talk to him.” The big one was barking orders. He had to be the one in charge. Although the female was a close second, for sure.
The small male moved in on Kyle, and grabbed him by the throat, shoving him back against the wall. This one was scrawny. Kyle could have overpowered him easily. Yet all he did was grip the witch’s wrist and stare back at him, mouth pulled into a grimace.
“We need the girl,” the small witch croaked.
Kyle stayed silent. She saw the female witch roll her head back in frustration.
“This one.” The alpha male held something out to Kyle. But Megan couldn’t tell if he was looking or not. She only heard him pull in a strained, wheezing breath.
“Idiot!” the large witch hissed. “If he can’t breathe, he can’t answer!”
Megan didn’t see the other witch loosen his grip, but he must have, because she could hear Kyle gasping for air.
“The closet!” Kyle sputtered. “She’s— in the closet! She has—to be!”
Megan’s stomach dropped.
The last male, in the green jacket, who had been silent until now, pointed to the broom closet, and Megan sobbed.
“That one?”
“Yes! Yes, that one!”
The large one laughed. “Well, she’s not goin’ nowhere!” He patted the witch who was pinning Kyle on the shoulder. “Kill him.”
“What?!” Kyle gasped.
“Leave his face, though,” the female purred, moving in on Kyle and stroking his cheek. “—He’s beautiful!” Kyle winced and tried to shift away, but with very little real effort.
“What’s he saying now?” the green-jacket witch asked. Megan strained her ears, she couldn’t hear anything, but the female leaned an ear close to Kyle and then let out a shrill shriek of laughter.
“Wake up?!” she taunted. “Wake up?!– You’re not dreamin’, Pumpkin!” She patted his cheek. “You’re about to die!”
The witch with his hand on Kyle’s throat added a second hand, dead magic beginning to gather around his fingers.
“Aw, buddy.” it laughed. “You’ll be alright!”
Kyle only groaned in pain.
“Leave him alone!” Megan screamed. She couldn’t stop it. She rattled the closet door with both hands and screamed out loud. “Let him go!”
That time, all the witches laughed, and the reality of what had happened—of what she’d done—sunk in. Kyle was about to die, and now, so was she.
“You hiding in there?” The alpha male took a few steps towards the closet. Megan stood stiff, waiting.
The door ripped open. Megan screamed and fell backwards against brooms and mops and shelving on the back wall.
“Found ya!” the witch exclaimed happily. Megan grabbed for the nearest thing, a mop, and she jabbed the handle at him with an angry yell. But he grabbed it and yanked it out of her grip effortlessly.
For a moment, she met Kyle’s eye. He sucked in a breath and tried to say something, but it came out wordless. His eyes turned back onto the witch strangling him—and his brow dropped. He gritted his teeth and mouthed something inaudible. Something that made the witch let go.
Before Kyle could draw in another desperate gasp, the witch screamed out.
“No! Don’t call me that!”
All heads turned, even the witches, as the small witch grabbed Kyle by the hair and slammed him back against the wall. Kyle’s eyes snapped back and then glazed over. The witch then brought his head down cracking against the countertop. Kyle went down instantly, crumpling on the floor against the counter. The witch stood over him, dead magic sizzling on the few patches of exposed skin, chest heaving.
“Kyle! Oh my god, no!” Megan sobbed, throwing her hands into her hair. Kyle was motionless, blood congealing on the tile floor underneath his head. The leader cackled once more.
“I didn’t mean kill him like that!” he giggled childishly. “But okay! Get creative, Pal!”
“What’d he say?” Green-jacket asked.
The small one didn’t answer. He just stood over Kyle and breathed hard.
“What do you want from me?!” Megan shrieked. “My dad will be home any minute now! Anything you want, he can give you!”
Did it make sense to bargain with witches? Probably not. But she didn’t know what else to do.
The witches snickered. Even the angered one. The leader stuck out a finger and waggled it back and forth.
“Nuh uh!”
He pulled the barb gun from its holster and began to approach her with heavy, threatening footsteps. Megan’s eyes flashed around the room and then locked on her only chance: the black, rotten magic still pouring from the smaller witch’s skin. She reached out and shot her own magic out, grabbing the dead magic and pulling it into the air. She spread it out into a dense fog and brought it down upon the room. The witches gasped and roared in shock and anger.
Megan zipped for the archway, sliding past the large witch and skidding into the hallway. Another witch followed, slamming into the wall alongside her and blocking her path to the door. She cursed and charged the other way, down the hall and up the stairs, with the witch scratching its way up behind her.
“Did she just move your magic?!” the large one’s voice boomed from back in the kitchen. “That’s awesome!”
Two witches were following her now. She glanced over her shoulder and saw them scrambling up the stairs behind her, pushing and shoving each other.
“Leave me alone!” she shrieked, turning down the hallway and charging for her father and Janet’s room. It had a big, open window that she could smash and leap out from. She tore into the room and slammed the door behind her, saving her a portion of a second to reach the windows and pound on them with her fists.
“Help!” she screamed as the witches ripped open the door. Megan turned and slipped behind Janet’s cheval mirror, holding it like a shield as the witches stalked around the bed.
“Don’t worry, kitten!” the female witch cooed, gripping the mirror with blackened fingers and poking her head around. “Promise not to eat ya!” She snapped her teeth underneath the stained bandana over her mouth.
“Eat my dick!” Megan hollered, pushing against the mirror with a burst of magic. The mirror—and the witch flew back and crashed into the floor, screeching angrily. Megan jumped up onto the back of the mirror and pushed down with all of her weight. There was a loud crunch, and the witch’s screams raised in pitch. Green-jacket stared down at the female, and then up at Megan. He looked afraid. This fear was likely what caused him to make his next mistake. He shot out his arms and sent a bolt of dead magic her way. She threw her own arm up and deflected it with a white flash. The black projectile bulleted back into the witch’s chest, and he smacked against the tall dresser behind him, collapsing in a heap on the floor.
The female witch beneath her shoved upwards, and Megan lost her balance, toppling off of the mirror and into the side of the bed. Megan pawed at the comforter, scrambling to get back on her feet as the witch threw the mirror off of herself and leapt to her feet, tucking a twisted and broken hand to her chest. Megan darted her eyes to the bedside table, and she leapt for the lamp, grabbing it in both hands just as the witch leapt on top of her, screeching and spitting and digging her fingernails into Megan’s back. Megan screamed and squirmed, twisting her body up and then slamming the lamp down on the top of the witch’s head. The witch squawked, and pressed her uninjured hand to Megan’s throat, squeezing hard enough to bring tears to Megan’s eyes. But Megan kept on hammering into the witch’s skull with the bottom end of the lamp, even when stars started to show in the corners of her vision.
One big, powerful blow finally sent the witch scurrying backwards until the back of her head hit the bottom of the window. Her hood had fallen down. Blood and dead magic had begun to pour down the sides of her balding scalp. Megan groaned, gripping the side of the bed with one hand and the lamp with the other. She pulled herself to her feet, wobbling on her heels and panting heavily. The witch sat in a ball, holding her head with her unbroken hand and kicking at the carpet.
“Bitch! Nasty little bitch!”
Megan huffed, dragging her feet across the carpet and raising the lamp in the air. The witch snarled and put a hand out, bracing for another blow.
Megan swung the lamp in a high arch, slamming it against the window. It cracked in a wide V, all the way down to the base. The witch looked up and Megan grabbed hold of her leaking magic, bashing her head back against the window and spreading the crack in the glass even wider. Then, Megan brought the lamp back with both hands, and then slammed it forward into the witch’s face. That final blow shattered the glass, and sent the witch tumbling backwards out the window.
Megan took a couple of seconds to catch her breath, letting the lamp fall to the ground by her feet. Then, the slowly approached the broken window, peering down into the darkness and pulling loose hairs off of her sticky, tear-stained cheeks.
“Holy shit,” she breathed. “Holy shit, shit, shit.”
In the blackness, she could just barely make out the outline of the witch’s body on the grass below. She didn’t wait to see if she was moving. She turned back to the room, and crossed it to where the male witch still laid unconscious by the dresser. She grabbed him by the arm and heaved with all her strength, dragging his limp body across the carpet, and shoving him headfirst out the window, ignoring the pieces of broken glass that snagged on his clothing.
“Shit!” she cussed one last time before turning and heading back out the door.
Megan tore down the stairs, keeping one hand out and magic fizzing underneath her fingernails and she stepped back out into the hallway, and darted for the front door. She made it to the front foyer rug when she skidded to a stop.
‘Kyle.’
Megan looked back and forth between the front door, and the possibility of a quick escape, and the archway of the kitchen, where the other witches could still be.
She paused for a quarter of a second, and then sighed hard, turning and running back to the kitchen, magic glowing in both of her palms.
But, when she burst into the kitchen, it was empty, save for Kyle’s crumpled body still laying on the floor. The puddle of blood hadn’t grown. That was a good sign—right?
Megan dropped to her knees by his side, grabbing him by the shoulder and rolling him over onto his back.
“Kyle!” she whispered harshly. He groaned weakly, his face creasing with discomfort.
“Oh thank god,” Megan breathed. “Kyle! Wake up! We have to go.”
She patted the side of his face, but his eyes wouldn’t open. She sighed and shook her head.
“I’m gonna get my phone. It’s in the TV room. I’m gonna get us help. I won’t leave you here.”
Megan stood up and whipped around. Just before she could rush out into the hall, another one, the small witch, stepped into the archway and blocked her path.
“Hey there!” he rasped, tilting his head playfully.
Megan tightened her jaw, backing away as the witch followed her into the kitchen slowly, threateningly.
“Wh-Where’s the other one?” she asked, checking both corners of the room.
“Gone to get the ones you pushed out the window.” The witch moved closer, backing her up until her spine hit against the counter island.
“You… uh,” she stammered. The witch tilted his head, listening, but still approaching.
“Y-You’re the… the punching bag of the group. Aren’t you?” Megan tripped over her words. Not good when they were all she had. “I saw the big one hit you.”
The witch raised an eyebrow at her and gave an exaggerated shrug.
She cleared her throat. “Was this all his idea?”
The witch scoffed, but didn’t answer. He just moved in closer. So close that the smell nearly halted her words at her lips.
“Why-Why are you doing what he says? Huh? If he hits you and stuff.”
“There’s worse things,” the witch answered. “Wanna see?”
He leapt and grabbed hold of her. Megan screamed and turned away, but the witch gripped her to his chest, grasping and pinning her arms to her stomach as she fought to cast, but only shot weak bursts of energy that barely aided her struggle. The witch snarled in her ear, and then laughed one of those disheartening laughs. The scarf must have come loose from his face, because she felt what she was sure to be his tongue dragging up the back of her neck.
She screamed louder. The witch released one of her arms and slapped a hand over her mouth, crushing her nose, suffocating her. She clawed at his hand for a second, and then reached out, stretching her arm across the counter and reaching for the knife block on the other end. Once again, stars returned to her vision and she strained her shoulder, brushing her fingertips against the handle of the knife. The witch must have noticed what she was doing, because he growled and yanked her backwards, but a second too late. Megan gripped the knife in her hand, twisting it back as she wrestled against the witch’s strength. She aligned the knife with the witch’s arm, and slashed down.
The witch released an inhuman cry, and he released her. Megan whipped around, knife in her hand to see the witch stumbling back, clutching his arm, which gushed blood and leaked a thin cloud of dead magic. He grunted and cussed, gripping the gashed-open arm with his other hand, trying to lessen the blood loss.
Megan kept the knife pointed at him as he looked up with enraged, golden eyes, black veins pulsating at their edges and thick rot pouring from his snarling mouth.
“Ah! Yeah! That hurt a bit!” the witch hollered, sending specks flying from his rot-coated teeth. He straightened up, shaking out his arm.
But Megan remained fixated on his face. The slope of his nose. The shape of his dark-grey lip.
“Zac?” she gasped.
The witch’s eyes flashed, and then a wide, black smile spread across his face.
“Hah! No!” His voice had become even less human than before.
He lunged at her, and in the shock of the moment, Megan forgot to raise the knife. Instead, she acted as fast as she could, grabbing hold of the magic that leaked from his bleeding arm and pushing it up into his face. He squawked and pawed at the air, trying to clear his vision. Megan ducked around him and grabbed hold of the back of his hoodie.
“No! Get off me!” The witch’s voice had become a high, animalistic shrill. “Get off! Get the fuck off!”
She considered driving the knife into his back, but instead she dropped it to the floor and used both hands to hurl him towards the open basement door with a burst of red magic. The witch screamed when he went crashing down the stairs. But when she peered down at him, he laid sprawled out on the bottom step, twitching ever-so-slightly.
Megan slammed the door shut—and slid the lock into place, thanking her father’s neurotic tendencies. She returned to Kyle’s side to make sure he was still breathing, and then carried on with her initial plan of retrieving her phone from the TV room.
She spun out into the hallway, and was immediately grabbed from behind. An arm swung around her throat and something cold pressed to her back.
Ka-thunk!
Megan screamed as something pierced deep into her skin. Then, an incredible weakness took over her. She could feel all of her energy draining away through the stinging spot on her back.
She’d been jabbed with a witch-copper barb.
“I figured it out!” the large witch’s voice cheered. He released her and she slumped to the floor, sputtering and struggling to move. But her limbs were numb and useless.
“What about–?” the green-jacketed male’s voice sounded. Megan tried to turn and look, but she couldn’t even manage to lift her head off of the floor.
“Leave him. We gotta go.”
“But—“
“He deserves it. He’ll come back. Or they’ll needle him. Either way.”
“And the pretty boy?” The female’s voice.
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let his pretty mum find him. We gotta go.”
“They’ll be angry.”
“Go!”
He lifted her up off the ground, and she could do nothing but scream feebly, until something tied around her mouth. Then, she could do nothing at all.
