safety of its brow, I head towards it with renewed vigour. I can outrun it. I know I can. Soon I am striding, boots splashing, up the far side. The sand here is also loose underfoot. My sped slows down. I cannot slow down. I must reach the top, and be over it. The waters rising, my feet are churning, the sand, I am clinging, fighting, climbing. No, I am lying. The water is reaching over my boots, and into. My feet are freezing – I am losing, tripping. Beneath the water, I am slipping, sliding, dying; finished, I am gone...
Beneath warm, dry sheets, sweet smelling linen, I am in my bed, oh how I am smiling. How did this happen? Was I only dreaming? It must be so; it is still not morning. I roll over and cuddle up anew. What is happening, spilling out? Where did this water come from? Am I wearing Wellingtons?
The Witches
It all began one cold winter’s night, with the appearance of three witches flying around my bed… You may well ask, ‘Is this just another one of your fantasy stories, like so many others you have penned?’ My answer, my only answer is this; “Read on, see for yourself…”
It was 21st October (how can I ever forget that terrible date?) and the mother of all storms was howling outside. Inside, snug in my bed, I was happy and warm, listening to the wind as it tried to wrench the last remaining leaves from the trees.
My bedroom window struggled, trying to keep the wicked wind on the outside where it belonged, but because of its great age and precarious state of repair, it was gradually losing the battle. I watched as the latch shook, rattled and shivered under the wind’s untiring onslaught. As a particularly strong gust struck the window, the latch finally gave way. It shot wide open, allowing the full force of the storm enter my bedroom. I pulled the bedclothes tight over my head, trying to protect myself from the raging fury around me.
Rushing into the room, mum asked, “What on earth is happening in here?”
Peeking out from under the bedclothes, I watched as she struggled to close the window.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, my darling. It is only an autumn storm, “she said, trying to ease my fears. “You’ll get used to them, in time.”
I tried to believe her, I wanted to believe her, but only after the storm had well and truly gone.
After she managed to close the window, mum came over. Stroking my forehead, and she said, “Don’t you be worrying, Jeremiah, think of the fun you’ll have, tomorrow, thrashing about in all those leaves.”
She was right, I loved running about in the fallen leaves, kicking them high into the air and watching them fall back to earth again. Conkers, there were always loads of conkers after a storm; tomorrow was shaping up to be a grand day…
“The window will be fine,” said mum. “It’s firmly closed. Go to sleep, Jeremiah…” With that, she pulled the door behind her, leaving the barest chink of light showing.
Although the storm was still raging outside, I tried to believe what she had said. Slowly, gradually I felt safe from the storm. That, however, was a mistake, a mistake that I was soon to regret…
With the window closed, my eyelids soon grew heavy, and I drifted away to the realms of blissful slumber, without a care in the world.
BANG! I awoke with a start. Had the window shot open again? Shooting a glance at the window, I saw that it was still closed. What, then, had made that awful noise? It was gone, now, it was quiet, eerily quiet. The light, the sliver of light that had been coming in thorough the partially open door had disappeared. Someone had closed my bedroom door – but who? That must have been what had awoken me – the door slamming shut. Who might have done such a thing? It was certainly not mum. Listening, I noticed that the wind had died down, so it could not have been that. Laying back into my wonderfully soft pillow, my eyelids grew heavier and heavier until I drifted off once again to sleep.
BANG! I shot up in bed, wondering why this was happening. I listened for the noise, to see if it happened again. It did not. I heard nothing. Scratching my head in frustration, I climbed out of bed and opened my bedroom door to its previous position, allowing a sliver of light to enter my room.
“That’s better,” I whispered.
Jumping into bed, I pulled up the covers and stretched out, thinking of all the wonderful leaves and conkers I would be able to play with the next day.
BANG! My bedroom door slammed closed. I knew that no wind, no matter how slight, had done it.
With eyes peeking out from under the bedclothes, I whispered, “This is weird, this is really weird.”
A LAUGH! I heard a laugh. My ears pricked, listening. A CACKLE! I heard a cackle. I sat up in bed, shivering with fright. Another laugh, another cackle, then another and another and another. I pulled the bed clothes higher over my head, in such fright.
Where is mum? Has she not heard? She must have heard the bang! Now that the door is closed, it will be harder for her to hear anything that happens in here! I peeked out from under the blankets. Was there someone there? There was – I was sure of it. Trying to get a clear look, I lifted the blanket a smidgeon. Then I saw them, I saw three dark forms, three humanlike forms flying around the ceiling light.
Rubbing my eyes, thinking they were playing tricks on me, I looked again, but the three dark forms were still there, flying around the light, laughing in wild excitement.
The storm outside had all but disappeared from my consciousness, replaced by a fear of something so far removed from my everyday existence, I feared for my very life.
The figures, the dark menacing forms continued to fly around the light fitting, laughing and cackling, laughing and cackling. I watched. I watched with increasing curiosity. It is not that I became any braver; the thought of being brave never entered my mind, I just began to get used to the three cackling figures flying around my room. I know this sounds unbelievable, even foolhardy, but that’s how it was – I simply watched them.
After I had been watching this spectacle for at least fifteen minutes, I was beginning to tire of it. So plucking up courage (I have no idea where it came from), I said, “Excuse me…”
The three figures stopped circling. Hovering stationery they stared down at me.
Now that they had stopped moving about, I was able to see them better, clearer. I could see that they were all women, old ugly women with warts.
BLACK! They were all wearing black flowing clothes that were so raggedy I almost felt sorry for the wearers. Tearing my eyes away from their tatty clothes, I suddenly became aware of the most frightening aspect of this nocturnal spectacle – BROOMS. As the three old women hovered above me, I could see the timeworn brooms that each one was perched. I knew, then, without a shadow of a doubt that they were all WITCHES, and I shrieked, I shrieked in utter fright, then I passed out.
When I awoke, the three women were standing around me bed, staring at me through their black eyes with a morbid curiosity. From such close quarters, they appeared even uglier than before. I gasped.
“Look,” said the first one, “It has awoken…”
“Hmm, so it has,” said the second woman.
The third one, said, “He, it is a he.”
All three women cackled.
The first witch poked me. You might think this no big deal but let me tell you, being poked about by someone who has nine-inch long and very bony fingers is not a pleasant thing. As each finger poked and prodded at me, I felt they were cutting swathes out of my flesh. It was horrible.
“Let me touch it,” said the second witch. “It must have enough flesh.”
She prodded me even harder than the first one. I cringed at every touch of her bony protrusions.
“Leave him be,” said the third witch, “I will speak with it – with him…”
As I awaited the third, the must ugly of the three witches to address me, I somehow knew that this was going to be something that I had long been awaiting. All thoughts of fear had for gone, vanished; replaced by anticipation for the future…
Before beginning, the third witch looked deep into my eyes, so deep I fe
ared she could see into my very soul. Eyeballing me, she said, “So you are expecting this.” She continued to speak in her drawled out, painfully slow manner, “This will make the transition so much – easier. That is good…”
The remaining two witches began laughing and cackling with renewed vigour.
“Before I continue, is there anything you would like to say?” the third witch asked.
At first, I simply shrugged my shoulders, lost for anything to say.
Shrugging was obviously the wrong thing to be doing. The second witch scowled, saying, “This – it – is the wrong one.”
“Finish it now,” the first witch hissed.
“No – wait,” said the third witch. “Let it – let him speak…”
As six beady eyes watched me intently – four in profanity, and two in anticipation, I vowed not to let the third witch down.
Pushing away the bedclothes, I stepped onto the cold hard floor, making ready to speak. Then my humanity returned, it returned with a vengeance, creeping into my psyche, wondering what I was doing. Why were these witches here, and what did they want?
Seeing my indecision, the first witch hissed, “Finish him off.” With that, she sent a bolt of ice-cold lightning streaking towards me.
In a fraction of a second, faster than the first witch’s attack, the third witch raising her hand, protected me from the lightning bolt. “Do it – now,” she urged me, “SAY IT…”
I did. I began speaking, my
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