Insanity

by A. R. Braun

  The crowd made their way into the huge sanctuary. Everyone still ignored him. Jerry took a seat in the back, on the right, noticing a thin, grey-haired man in a suit standing behind the wooden pulpit, a curvy, middle-age black-haired woman standing to his right—Jerry was willing to bet she was his wife—and the girl in the Little Bo Peep costume at his left.

  The pastor waited for what seemed like forever for everyone to get settled before starting the service. He bent down and whispered in Bo Peep’s ear, and she fluttered down the aisle.

  She stopped in the middle of the two back pews. The girl waved to the people on the left. “Everybody doing all right?”

  A grey-haired plump woman raised her eyebrows. “Yes, I’m—”

  “Everybody doing all right?” she asked again after turning Jerry’s way.

  “Sure, I—” Jerry started to answer.

  “Good!” Bo Peep skipped away.

  “Welcome, everyone,” the pastor spoke into the microphone when the pews had mostly filled, “to our Halloween party. If you’re new, we’re glad to have you. Make sure the visitors feel at home tonight.”

  The service constituted singing a few hymns and then they were done. It was back to the fellowship hall for more punch and stomping.

  One out of these hundreds of people had made Jerry feel welcome. That wasn’t an encouraging average. He frowned, looking at the floor.

  My God, they’re apathetic, even after what the pastor just said.

  Jerry looked around, needing a friend in the worst way and trying to locate Paul, but he was nowhere to be found. Jerry walked all over the gym, yet he couldn’t find him.

  The teen girls in witch costumes—along with their fearless leader that had given Jerry the compliment earlier—stood in front of the empty bleachers.

  Hadn’t they been walking the other way?

  They laughed at him as he passed, whispering something to each other.

  A built young man with a fauxhawk had his back to him. He craned his stout neck to glare at Jerry. He noticed the young guy’s black T-shirt sported a pentacle with the four elements dominating the back: earth, air, fire, and water. He sported a TapouT hat.

  Jerry left him. He noticed the only pretty female that looked adult standing underneath the basketball hoop with her daughter: a short, black-haired wisp of happiness. The woman was absolutely fetching as Elvira, and one could tell her long dark hair was no wig. A sumptuous leg stuck out of the black slit. The curvy lady had the face of an angel with full, pouty lips; a slim face; and bewitching brown eyes. She had high cheekbones and sported a deliberate lack of a tan. He noticed a full milky-white bosom bursting to get out of the cloth restraint.

  He walked up to her and stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Jerry Dalton. And you are?”

  Frowning, she forked him the evil eye. “Out of here.” She clutched her daughter’s arm and clicked off in her platform black heels.

  Jerry stood in a stupor for about ten minutes, not letting the devil drive him to despair. He refused to sink to eyeballing jailbait.

  Still, all ignored him.

  When he could take no more, Jerry ambled over to the parson’s wife, tapping on her shoulder to steal her attention from a young, handsome man with a crew-cut she seemed to be enthralled with. She turned to him with eyes looking him up and down like he carried poor germs, and she raised her eyebrows as if to say what the hell do you want?

  “Excuse me,” Jerry said. “Have you seen Paul?”

  She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips. “Paul Forrester?” Her voice was high and raspy.

  Jerry nodded.

  She seemed to attempt a lachrymose smile. She failed. “He left early.” She chuckled. “Off to his favorite hobby, I’m afraid.”

  “On Halloween?”

  Now she smiled genuinely. “Oh yes. You can’t pull him away from reading the future in the positions of the stars and the movements of the planets with that telescope of his. Adept at astrology, that man.”

  Horrified, Jerry’s head swam with torment. “Astrology? That’s not Christian.”

  She harrumphed. “You’ll have to take that up with him. He’s on the church staff, though, so I’d tread lightly. And you are?”

  Jerry let out a sardonic laugh. “Frankly, I’m disgusted by everyone’s behavior; here I was expecting loving kindness—it’s a church, for God’s sake—and everyone’s treating me like a piece of dirt.”

  The woman looked at him with wide eyes.

  “Don’t you think someone should care?” he went on. “I mean, if a church is going to profess Christianity, they might want to give a . . . rip.”

  She squinted, then sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, young man, but it seems that twenty percent of the parishioners do eighty percent of the work.”

  Jerry shook his head. “Well, give me a chance to prove myself!”

  Everyone’s conversation hushed, and all eyes were on him as if he were E. F. Hutton.

  Jerry walked up to the microphone. “Excuse me. I’ve been a guest here for a while, and only one person introduced himself. Why isn’t anyone acting Christian?”

  Scowling, the minister approached. “Son, I think you’d better leave.”

  “Why . . . you’re just hypocrites!” Disgusted, Jerry stomped into the night.

  Everyone was a witch, women only dated money, and there really was no hope.

  The apostasy on the Samhain sabbat.

  Changing Times

  Times are changing, and I don’t know if it’s for the best.

  Vinnie Vickers left his brownstone row house in Staten Island to catch the bus to work. He was never sure whether to wear a jacket or not, as the fall weather usually offered mild temperatures, and the chill had been absent lately. Global warming? Vinnie had decided to skip the jacket. A warm wind wafted over him and he realized he was right to leave it behind. His Mets cap adorned his head, hiding his bald crown. The sounds of men and women yelling at each other, along with honking horns, assaulted him.

  The multi-colored bus stormed up, exhaust hissing as it stopped. Vinnie stepped on and looked over the square-jawed, dimpled bus driver, who forked him the evil eye. He paid his fare and scanned the scowling denizens. Vinnie found a seat near a woman named Ophelia, a fetching acquaintance with long raven hair. She’d donned a low-cut black dress that showed off her cleavage and clung to her curves, plus matching black boots. Vinnie imagined what she’d look like under the clothes.

  The engine roared and whooshed as the bus took off. Vinnie worked at a deli in Brooklyn, and had for five years. The pay raises helped him afford his modest home and the simpler things in life.

  I shoulda gone to college. I coulda been on Wall Street.

  “Hey, Vinnie,” Ophelia chirped. “Off to work?”

  “You know it. Who else pays the rent, the fairies?”

  The bus roared over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, and once again the Hudson River and the skyscrapers in the distance took his breath away.

  Ophelia smirked, giggling a bit. “Actually, there are many fairies, and I find them all useful.”

  She also dwelt in Staten Island, though she ran a new-age store in Brooklyn. She’d told him the last undisturbed forest area in Staten Island was a place of worship . . . for her coven. She flashed him a pixie smile, and he couldn’t help being struck by her beauty. Her haunting, light green eyes devoured him, and the milky-white skin that peeked out of her dress made his hormones rage. The curly waves of her tresses spelt out “sex” as if Farrah Fawcett’s ghost had risen from the grave.

  She cocked her head. “Still close to your friends, Vinnie?”

  He nodded. “I knock around with a couple fellas from work. We go to Mets games; drink a little beer—okay, maybe a lot—but it goes well with peanuts.”

  “You an alcoholic?”

  He snorted. “Only on weekends.”

  Again, she laughed. “Strawberry wine’s my drink of choice.” She tossed her hair. “No sweetheart then?”

>   Her enchanting eyes seemed to light up as the bus reached Brooklyn, and it was almost impossible for Vinnie to tear his stare away from the goddess so he could gaze up at the skyscrapers. “Nah, no sweetheart, but you know, the city that never sleeps offers other alternatives.”

  The bus turned a corner where obvious hookers stood out from the crowd, probably walking to a café to grab some breakfast after a long night. His heart was sad as he glanced at the shortest one.

  “Fuck,” Vinnie said. “That goil can’t be any more than twelve.”

  Misty-eyed, Ophelia pulled a tissue from her pouch and dabbed her eyes. “So sad.”

  “Touched, are ya?” Vinnie shrugged. “That’s New Yawk. If a shithead wants a twelve-year-old hooker, the Big Apple’s the place to get ‘er.” Though he acted tough, Ophelia’s reaction had moved him.

  She snuffled. “I love your black hair and brown eyes; Italian, no doubt?”

  “You got that right, sister. Pure bred.” He studied her mesmerizing irises a bit longer. “You makin’ a point?”

  She nodded and put away the tissue. “It’s time you found some lady friends, and one special friend.”

  “And?” Doesn’t she mean “or”?

  “Why don’t you drop by while we worship in the woods and come see my store sometime?” she added.

  Vinnie knew about her shop. Goddess-Centered Delights lurked down the block from his deli, ridiculously named “Deli.” Vinnie believed in Jesus and patriotism, though, and he didn’t want any weird shit interloping on his design. “I dunno. I’m not really into that, sister. I got my ways, and I’m pretty set in ‘em.”

  The bus pulled up to the deli. He pulled the string.

  Ophelia shook her head while frowning. “You dear, sweet man. I’m not telling you who to worship.” She pulled her dress up to reveal her knees, then a bit of her thighs. “I just want you to be happy.”

  A fire down below erupted as Vinnie rose from his seat. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt for us to take in a Mets game. I’m at 2028 Hyland.”

  Ophelia smiled sexily as she rose to get off at the same stop. “Oh, I’ll be over, don’t you worry about that.”

  He held her gaze a little longer.

  “Move it or lose it, buddy,” the bus driver barked. “I got other stops to make, you know.”

  Vinnie sized him up. “Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on.” He stepped off the bus with Ophelia in tow.

  ***

  Vinnie frantically sliced cold cuts all morning, but he had to fight for concentration because Ophelia’s thighs kept intruding into his mind. It had been a long time since he’d done the deed—a couple weeks, to tell true. On lunch break, Vinnie rejected the too-familiar cold cuts and walked down to a street vendor. He purchased a hot dog and a soft pretzel and made an additional stop at a pastry stop for a cannoli for dessert; he couldn’t resist. He found himself moving in the direction of Ophelia’s store, unable to forget about the encounter that might ensue and wondering if it would be worth it.

  That witch better not have put a love spell on me.

  But what could he do? Hit a woman? Not his style at all. So here he was, opening her wooden door with glass inlay and listening to the bell clanging. Incense assaulted his nostrils as he walked through the rows of shelves. He gawked at the mini-gargoyle statues, the pipe-cleaner stars in a circle, the wands, and crystal balls.

  Ophelia looked up at him from a spell book. She pulled her black glasses off and let them hang by the beaded chain around her neck. Her eyebrows rose and she beamed. “Vinnie! What a pleasant surprise!”

  “Pretty weird shit in here, sister. What a way to make a living.” He took a sip of soda.

  She furrowed her brow and crossed her arms. “Do not speak evil of what you don’t understand. I’m a Wiccan, spreading only good karma. I cast protection and prosperity spells, plus binding hexes on warlocks, the wicked so-called witches who prey on decent people like you and me.”

  Vinnie couldn’t take his eyes off the bosom protruding from her dress. “No offense, sister. I’m not used to all this.”

  The corners of her lips curled up. “None taken.” She took a drag from a cigarette, and then blew smoke rings, one landing on his crotch. “See anything you like?”

  What’s not to like? “I dunno. I guess I was just curious.” A bookshelf with spell books and instruction tomes caught his eye—novels by Scott Cunningham, Silver RavenWolf, and a plethora of occult authors.

  “Mabon’s round the corner—the Autumn Equinox—and I’d love for you to dance with us.”

  Vinnie uttered a laugh. “Don’t do much dancin’. You mean the . . .”

  “The witch’s deosil dance, yes; clockwise to you.” Her seductive eyes pinned him lustily.

  How can I bag this babe without getting into that weird shit?

  “You cannot,” she answered.

  When she’d said that, he walked away while sporadically looking behind him, unable to handle Ophelia reading his mind.

  This shit is not happening!

  But if it wasn’t, he was losing his mind.

  “We’ll come for you!” she added as he crossed the door’s dinging threshold.

  ***

  Vinnie cursed himself for fucking up a couple of orders and then fought to achieve a higher level of concentration for the rest of the day. He took a cab home—a bit expensive—but at least it helped him avoid Ophelia. He wondered how close she lived to him, knowing the woodland didn’t loom far from his home.

  She could be on the same block, or around the corner. Maybe the broad’s watching me all the time.

  He paid the fare and tried to forget about Ophelia as he walked up and unlocked his door, but he couldn’t.

  The woman’s psychic! How do I deal with that? It was probably a bad hot dog, making me imagine things, or a bad pretzel. At least I hope so.

  Wait. I probably asked it out loud and don’t remember . . . but if that’s the case, I have to apologize.

  He shook it off.

  What am I thinkin? No f-ing way!

  Vinnie walked inside, deciding he needed a few beers in the worst way. Perhaps he should call his pals and take in a Mets game. When he pulled the schedule out of his wallet, however, he found his team didn’t play till tomorrow.

  His thoughts turned to Ophelia. Surely there was more to romance than lust. He wanted a woman he could build a connection with, a Mets fan, a New Yorker that enjoyed the finer things of life: a frank at the ballpark, beer, and—why not, he considered himself cultured—even the occasional free Broadway play in Central Park.

  It was settled. He’d resist Ophelia.

  Vinnie found himself returning to the icebox over and over, drinking more and more brew, yet that made him want the woman even more. Therefore, he continued to down the suds until he passed out.

  ***

  He woke at midnight, hearing giggling outside. As Vinnie’s bleary eyes adjusted to night vision, female shapes in long dresses ran back and forth in front of his window, tapping on it. Vinnie rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Too much beer? Yet they continued to rattle the pane.

  Ophelia stopped to peer in at him, her cat’s eyes burning into his soul. She banged on the window so loudly it shook in its frame. Then she ran off to join the others passing to and fro.

  Trembling, Vinnie remembered what she’d said.

  We’ll come for you!

  “You’ll come, too!” Ophelia continued, as if finishing a rhyme scheme for a tune, as well as his thought . . . again.

  Vinnie slapped himself on the cheek. “Get a hold of yourself, bubba. They’re just broads.” Coming to his senses, he rose and hobbled to the door, now realizing how drunk he was, and stumbled through the hallway while holding onto the wall for balance. As he went out the door, they wheeled on him with wide eyes.

  “Now look,” he said, surprised at the slur in his speech. “Hold it down to a dull roar, huh? Jesus!”

  The women in Ophelia’s coven were stunningly gorgeous, a blo
nde and a redhead donned black dresses cut in points near their ankles, their curly hair hanging wildly down their shoulders and backs. The slim women giggled and ran for him, taking him by the arms, except for the blonde—she pushed him from behind. Although Vinnie loved the soothing touches of their hands, and although his hormones screamed for release, he feared for his soul. He’d been an altar boy, raised Catholic—pronounced “Catlic” by his family—and still adhered to those principles.

  “I don’t . . . want . . . to burn in hell,” he stammered.

  “Summerland’s where you’ll go!” Ophelia answered in a Scottish accent he’d never heard her feign.

  The woods rushed in on him as they led him violently forward—which, surprisingly, turned him on (with women, what didn’t?)—the full moon watching with its glowing eye. His hormones caved to the idea of the women coming upon him in some frenzied ritual. What would happen? Would he get lucky?

  “We’re twelve in number, and you make thirteen,” the redhead yelled, giggling.

  The woods swallowed him. Branches lashed him hither and yon as they raced Vinnie through the woodland until he came to a clearing with an altar. A table with a black tablecloth stood out, holding a ritual dagger, metal bowls full of water and earth, a small knife in the shape of a crescent moon, and what looked like a pentagram plate turned right-side up. Smoke rose from an incense burner, next to a sword and two long red candles. Nine additional women clad in long dresses surrounded the altar, some pleasantly plump, some thin; their faces barely visible in the candlelight cast from the shifting wicks atop the red candles that covered the ground. To his delight, they disrobed; their breasts and triangular thatches of pubic hair exciting him to hardness as they stripped his clothes off while saying, “Get skyclad, Gardnerian style,” whatever that meant.

  Ophelia—obviously the high priestess—traced a clockwise circle around the altar with the sword. They called the “guardians of the watchtowers” from the four corners, whomever they were. He danced the pagan dance with them, at first slowly, then a jog quickening into a run as they chanted, “Waxing, waxing, growing, growing; Diana’s power is flowing, flowing.” Ophelia held the dagger forth and cast spells, one where she invoked the goddess to “Open Vinnie’s mind to the power of the finest blood mystery.”