The Witching Hour - Fiction

This is a story I wrote as part of my Fiction writing class in 2014.

The story is dark, mysterious and brings to light exactly how far someone would go to reap justice for the helpless. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Carlos di Maria was a man of splendid tastes. He enjoyed fine port wines and late Baroque composers, often at the same time. He styled French lacquer through his silver hair and used a fine bone comb to set it. On Fridays he only ate smoked salmon. He once took great pleasure in picking out brightly coloured silk handkerchiefs from the tailors on St. Laurent Street. Since his retirement, Carlos found it exceedingly difficult to get his hands on decently crafted handkerchiefs. Each morning before he was served breakfast, Evangeline would enter the master bedroom and present a selection of the East’s finest silk handkerchiefs to Mr. di Maria. Sometimes he would choose the eggshell tinged silk from South Korea, often he would pick the rich, burgundy Vietnamese silk, but one particularly cold day he itched for black Chinese silk. He had acquired this particular item during a ‘business’ trip in Beijing. It nearly cost him his life waiting for his grand initials to be stitched in gold thread into the fabric. The tailor had told him that the silk was unnaturally coarse to the touch, which he believed to be a bad omen and that death would follow those who held it. But Carlos was an almost practical man. He only believed in his own superstitions.

 A harsh and bitter wind blew in from the Atlantic and whistled through the forest of wild, sparse trees that encircled the di Maria private estate. He found solace, and anonymity in a small dusty town called Goshen in the heart of The Green Mountain State. He was never bothered by his neighbours, being so few in number that he could go for several weeks without have to converse with any of them, and in the unfortunate case that he stumbled across one rambling through the forest, the company would rarely stand closer than ten feet beside him. He didn’t care about isolation. Dealing with the worst of mankind had given him a distaste for their company.   

Carlos cradled a small tumbler of Cognac La Gabare against his chest; 1958, of course. The dark liquid left a trail of warmth as it slid down his throat and spread through his chest. He hummed along as the chilling air of Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion animated his lonely dining room. He watched as amber flames flickered in unison to the piece from a large red-brick fireplace. In the corner of his eyes, Carlos spied the large bushy tail of his only currently living companion. No more than his master, Clarence’s eyes had seen many moons, though only in his own years. The large grey hairy feline stalked proudly across the floor, positioned his legs beneath his fat body and lunged himself onto his masters lap. Carlos only broke his gaze from the fire for an instant before he rested his lazy hand on the cats back, stoking minimally. Carlos curled the long, manicured nails of his left hand into the plush armrest. A low husky growl rolled from deep inside his chest as the voice emanating from his original vintage record player reached unnatural, breath-taking notes. He raised one finger, then two from the cats back and they twitched gently to the rhythm. The hair follicles on his arms budded waiting through the progression of dramatic movements. The crescendo of soprano, bass and icy violin crashed together, growing louder and bolder and wilder until the needle slipped, and Jesus was allowed to pray in the garden of Gethsemane all night long. Carlos opened his eyes and saw pristine light shining through his window. He rested his hands on the arms of his chair and forced his weight onto his wrists, to ease himself to his feet, but the deep rumbling monotone of distant chatter dropped him back into his seat. He looked down to Clarence and sighed.

“The Witching hour grows near. Bach will have to wait.”

Hooking the lazy animal under his arm, Carlos stood up from his chair and strolled across the room. Both Clarence and Carlos gazed across the front lawn and spotted the source of the commotion. Three figures bulked with padded winter jackets swayed in crouched animation over a large object glistening in bleached October moonlight. From this distance, Carlos couldn’t see what was happening, and he didn’t like not knowing. He opened up and reached into his top drawer and pulled a small wood-cased brass telescope from an indented, felt-lined wooden box. Holding the end, he flicked the barrel towards the floor to its full length and lifted it to his eye. He could see three young man huddled around a large grey sports bag. He needed to know what was in that bag. Carlos opened the window quietly and pushed it out. He listened to the deep toned northern drawl of the young men’s accents as they bickered among themselves.

“How many is in there?” one of them spoke, a stretched teen with shiny black hair.

“About five, give or take.” the second man faced away from Carlos. The smallest of the group was a younger looking boy to the rest. He stood with his hands in his pockets, kicking snow off tufts of grass.

“Five! Are you kidding me! They won’t last than ten minutes.”

“It’s more than you could get your hands on.”  

“Okay, Jees. Come on, let’s go. This place gives me the creeps.” The three figures dashed into the dark expanse of trees that surrounded the di Maria estate. Carlos followed the pathway of the hooded boys from his window, approximately north east, he thought.

“What charming young trespassers, Clarence.” The cat continued to purr loudly in his masters arms. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that bag of theirs seemed to contain objects that might damage my lovely trees. I think I should kindly escort them from the premises.” The vibrating purrs ceased in Clarence’s throat and the small animal looked up and locked eyes with his master. Carlos sighed and slowly lowered the cat into a large beanbag, grey with thick hair, beneath the window. The floorboards creaked as Carlos walked back across the room. He plucked a thick woollen coat from a hanger and slipped his arms into the sleeves and placed a wide brimmed hat on the crown of his head. He opened out a large mahogany wardrobe beside the crackling fire and pulled a small leather carry bag from a high shelf. He swept dust from the surface before opening the zips. He smirked and pulled an object from the bag and pushed it into his coat pocket.

“Time to hunt some witches.” Carlos smirked and exited the room. Clarence said nothing and resumed cleaning the spot between his legs where his testicles once lay.

The three young men made their way through the bare trees of the Willow Forest. Snow crunched beneath their boots. The wind was sharp and ice cold and made their teeth chatter in their head’s. To the back, Samuel, the youngest of the group, scanned the darkness with quick harpy-like jolts.

“I-I think this is a bad idea.” The older boys continued to trudge through the snow, ignoring the pleas behind them. Samuel continued on. “I’m serious. This is bandit territory. These lands belong to that crazy old guy in the black house back there. Nathan says that he is ex-special forces and that he’s known in the south as El Barbero, because he uses a cut throat razor to-

“To what, Samuel? Give his victims a really close shave?” Hunter, the older boy turned to Samuel. Don’t be listening to the likes of Nathan. The guy in the black house is a recluse. My cousin Ev’ works for him. Says he’s just some ancient rich guy looking for ‘tranquillity’ in his final years or something. The poor guy probably can’t even wipe his own ass anymore. Trust me, he ain’t going to be slittin’ any more throats.”

Jacob, the boy with the black hair and Samuel’s brother, four years his senior, turned and locked shocked eyes with his brother.

“Lighten up, dude. There ain’t no way that guy will be out here.” He spoke, softer than before. Samuel sighed and smiled his assurance to Jacob, but remained on edge. They continue on, in silence, in their hunt for suitable grounds. The terrain thinned and they passed under the overhang of a weathered bolder. Dark mulchy detritus lined the floor-bed, a warming welcome to their snow-clogged boots. 

Hunter kicked at a circle of stones resurrected around a circle of burned soil, which possibly once held a campfire. He laid the sports bag beside the campfire and dropped to his knees beside it, opened the bag and pouring the contents onto the ground. Jacob turned to Samuel and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Stay back here-” He whispered and started to push Samuel back out from beneath the overhang. “You’ll be safer out here. There’s an arsonist about this guy deep down.” Samuel shuck his head.

“I’m sure you don’t need to dig too deep to find it.”

The two boys grinned reluctantly in unison before Jacob joined Hunter in sorting the fireworks by size. Samuel leaned against a large oak tree and picked his nails into loose bark chunks, observing everything from a healthy distance. Rummaging in the hazy light of the moon, Jacob pulled a thick wide-barrelled firework from beneath the sports bag.

“Whoa! Look at the size of this!” The older brother squinted in the pale light to read the label. He couldn’t make out the language but he easily recognised the vibrantly colourful oriental dragon printed on the label. Plumes of animated fire were painted across the background banner.

“How did you get your hands on this thing?” Hunter looked up from his organising and his eyes widen at the sight of the monstrous firework in his friends hand.

“Give me that!” he snatched the object forcefully from Jacob’s hand and held it to his chest for a moment. He felt his heart beating against the shaft of the unlit destructive force. He felt the powerful potential throbbing through his skin, then he laid it on the ground beside the other categorised fireworks.

“We’ll save the best for last.” He smirked and ran his finger along the smooth cylinder.

Across the expanse, Samuel spied the horrific looking firework and gasped.

      “That’s going to make one hell of a racket.” He shuddered and looked back in the direction of the black house.

“It sure will.” Hunter replied, grinning widely. Hunter picked up a long thin firework with an extra-long mounting stick and fuse. He rolled it in his hand and ran a finger along the grainy surface up to the coned tip, licking his lips.

“Well. Let’s get this show on the road.” He planted the stick into the scorched earth in the centre on the opening and crouched down to view the estimated trail the miniature rocket would take with one eye. He pulled a box of matches from his jeans, pushed the inner container from its sleeve, plucked a long fire-safe match from the package and struck the red tip against the course ignition strip. The match burst into white heat and light before it sobered back to dull flickering yellow.

Samuel had his arm wrapped around the back of the tree and balance his weight on one foot. He watched Hunter grin at the firework and meet his brother’s gaze. Jacob shrugged his shoulders and tightened his lips into a line across his thin milky face. 

“Stand back ladies.” Hunter chuckled coyly and dropped his hand to light the fuse. Just before the flame of the match licked against the material, a loud, ear-piercing scream reverberated through the forest. Hunter dropped the match. The sound was everywhere, trapped in the trees, in the dead leaves, rustling up the wildlife, echoing it all back to the three men. When Jacob and Hunter turned back to the source of the noise, they saw Samuel backing away from the tree he was standing beside.

“What the hell, Sam!” Hunter scowled. Samuels face was ghostly pale and his hands were visibly shaking.

“What happened?” asked Jacob, standing up. Samuel turned to the older boys, eyes wide with fright.

“N-nothing. I thought- I- something touched my hand.”

Hunter groaned begrudgingly. “We’re in a forest, there is wildlife everywhere. Something probably just ran down the tree and crossed over it.” Jacob smiled to his brother to second Hunters theory.

“This place is crawling with critters, Sam. Look there?” Just at the edge of the snow, a small mouse walked by the campfire. It froze when the three boys turned towards it, like it knew it was being watched. Samuel’s body tensed up at the sight of the small mammal. Hunter stared intently at the mouse. A cruel smirk crossed lips and he began to crawl towards it. Resting his weight on his fingertips, he waited. The mouse inched away bit by bit, but Hunter lunged forward and caught a firm hold of the tiny creature. Jacob walked across to Hunter and looked at the mouse.

     “It’s so… small. Look, Sam. Hunter won’t let it-” He turned behind and stopped suddenly when Samuel was nowhere to be seen. “Sam?” He called out. But there was only silence.

     “Sam!” he repeated and stood up. “This isn’t funny, man. Come on.”

     “He probably ran home, like a little bitch.” Hunter jested with a smirk.

     “Hey! Not cool. And besides, we would have heard him leaving. Or he would have told us.”

  Hunter grunted and continued to stare at the mouse. Jacob crossed over to where Sam was last seen. He examined the bark with his fingertips. Through the scattered light, Jacob searched for footprints in the snow. He recognised two indents to the left of the tree where Samuel was standing. He peered slowly around the corner and saw two deep lines and a series of indents behind it like two people dancing. No. Not dancing. Jacob froze and became acutely aware of someone behind him. But he didn’t move. From the side he could see a large black gloved hand reaching around him. A small cry escaped Jacob’s mouth and the hand covered his mouth. His whole body tensed and hot tears escaped his eyes as he whimpered into the glove. His neck twitched as a warm breath blew against his ear.

       “You’re on my land, boy.” It whispered in a deep rustic voice. The heat grew closer to his ear and he could feel his knees weakening beneath him. The hand over his mouth tightened. “So I suggest you follow that other little shit back home to where you came from.”

In a second the hand was gone. Jacob spun around and a man cloaked in shadows loomed over him. All that were visible were two piercing eyes through the darkness. Jacob was only vaguely aware of a warmth running down his legs. The man leaned down his massive size to eye level with the boy and whispered.

     “Boo.”

     And with that Jacob sprinted back up the path through the trees following another yellow trail in the snow. Carlos smirked and watched the boy running away.

     “Two down-” He whispered to himself and peered around the tree. “-One to go.”

  

     Hunter rubbed his thumb over the animal’s soft underbelly, only vague aware that Jacob had gone away.

“You’re so… pretty.” Hunter brought the mouse to his face and inhaled a deep breath full of earthy rodent.

“I’m going to call you…FUCK!” Hunter howled and unhooked the mouse’s teeth from the edge of his nostril. “You little shit!” The mouse squealed as Hunter’s grip tightened around the small animal. He rubbed his free hand across his face. Warm blood covered his fingers. His eyes widened. He rubbed his hand over the mouse’s head and body. The animal wriggled as the thick bloody finger presses into his skull.

“I’ll show you to behave, mousy.” Hunter pulled an elastic band from his pocket and doubled it over and around the animal, securing its arms in a tight tangled loop. He picked up the small firework and stretched the electric band and mouse over the tip of the rocket. The mouse frantically scrambled against the elastic.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” His eyes are wide and glassy. Thick red capillaries opened and bleached his eyes, inhuman and brutal.

He pulled a small army-knife from his pocket, opened out the blade and held it flat against the mouse’s stomach

“Imma gonna gut you, boy.” He put on a deep southern accent and cackled dramatically. Just before he was about to plunge the knife into the animal’s chest, Hunter heard the cracking of twigs directly behind him and he turned, expecting Jacob or the other one to be standing over him. But it wasn’t them. Hunter barely had time to register the tall masked figure standing over him. All he saw was a large black hand hurling towards him at great speed, and then darkness.

When Hunter regained consciousness his hands were bound behind his back and he was propped against a tree. His lower half was frozen from the snow and he couldn’t feel his legs. The world was spinning and his stomach churned in arrhythmic motions with his surroundings. He doubled over and spilled the contents of his stomach onto the forest floor.

“Wakey wakey, boy.” The voice was deep and unnaturally soothing. He couldn’t keep his head straight. His hair hung over his face and clung to his sweaty and blood drenched cheeks. He couldn’t hold his head straight enough to look at the black figure above him.

“I said wake up.” The man followed with a sharp strike to Hunter’s right cheek. He grabbed Hunter’s chin, still smeared in blood, and forced his head straight. Hunter could see between the narrow slit in the mask and stared into the man’s eyes. They were emerald green surrounded in fleshy folds of tanned skin. Hunter tried to move his legs but his left thigh was heavy with lob-sided weight. The man dropped Hunter’s face, ghostly white with fear and blood loss. His stomach churned violently when he saw the wide-barrelled Chinese firework strapped to his upper leg with his leg with shiny black fabric. The bright eyes of the illustrated dragon stared up at him from the cylinder.

“Oh god. Oh God. No. No. Please, I beg you please take it off.” Hunter snivelled, tears and mucus rolled down his face. The masked man stood up, slowly and reached one hand into the inner pocket of his coat. He held up the small mouse in his loosely cupped hand and ran a gloved finger along its head, very gently.

“Oh. That’s not for me to decide. I’m going to leave that to your little friend here.” The man lifted the mouse to his ear and listened intently. The forest went deadly silent as the fate of Hunter’s lower body was being determined by the begrudging mouse. Through the narrow eye slit in the man’s black mask, Hunter saw his eyes narrow to listen and watched them dart from side to side, absorbing in the imaginary words, fleshing out the inevitable. Finally, his eyes widened in satisfaction. A long despairing ‘Oh’ pushed through the fabric of his mask and his eyes locked once more with Hunter’s.

“You’re not going to like this.” Hunter wailed and his whole body shook violently.

“No. No, you don’t understand. I have a scholarship. I need my legs. Please. Dear God, please take it off. I’ll do anything. Please, sir. I’ll-I’ll start going to Church again. I’ll do anything you ask. Just please… take it off.” Hunter wailed hysterically. The older man placed the mouse back in his breast pocket and crossed the terrain to Hunter. He cocked his head to the side and looked defiantly into Hunter desperate eyes.

“Church? What good will heaven do you now?” his voice crawled as Hunter spluttered his apologies. The man reached into Hunter’s pocket and pulled out the box of matches. He drew one from the packaging and struck it against the edge. The extra-long match burned down towards his gloved hands and he twirled it between his fingers.

“There is no place for you there.” The young man cried for his life as the masked man walked back across the expanse, match still in hand. Hunter shuffled back and forth in sheer panic, struggling against his restraints.

“Sir. I’ll do anything.”

He turned around and stared at the young man. He opened his jacket and peeped into the pocket where the mouse lay snug in the man’s body heat. Hunter’s blood was caked into its head and stomach.

“It seems you would.”

He closed his jacket. A small ping sounded and the man checked his wristwatch. He smirked and looked back to the boy.

“The witching hour is upon us. Happy Halloween.” He dropped the match. The end of an extra-long fuse ignited and hissed closer to the large dragon rocket. As Carlos walked away from the opening in the wood, he pulled the small mouse out from his pocket and stroked its head gently, counting seconds. A few moments later he hears a loud sharp boom, and the crackling of tree branches.

Carlos di Maria wandered wearily into his living room and kicked his shoes into the corner. He slid his woollen jacket from his shoulders and hooked it on the back of the door. Cracking several vertebrae, he reached into the bottom of his mahogany wardrobe and pulled out a box. Awkwardly, he tipped the box over and a pair of pristine leather shoes fell onto the floor. He placed the small mouse into the box and carried it over to the low table beside his seat. It scrunched the paper padding and burrowed a bed for itself. Carlos placed his black mask on the table beside it. Clarence lifted his head from his beanbag as his master entered the room and yawned widely as only cats can. He stretched his front legs and arched the base of his back before walking over to the footstool beside the newly occupied table.

“I found you a new friend, Clarence. You are not to harm your new friend. Do you understand?” The cat growled and curled into a crescent moon on the foot stool. Carlos walked back across the room and filled a small glass bowl with water from a tall silver jug and made his way back to the fire. He flipped the large vinyl and finely adjust his record player until the smooth, lulling sound of Schubert’s classic Ave Maria warmed the room. He sighed heavily and placed the shoe box on his knees. He pulled a long piece of maroon silk stitched with gold thread from his pocket, dipped it in the glass bowl of water and began to rub the blood from the mouse’s chest and head with gentle strokes.  

“It’s not the first time this handkerchief has touched someone else’s blood, Clarence, though I thought it had seen its last casualty.” The breathless soprano voice coursed through his skin leaving shivers in its path. His body stiffened for a moment as the high pitched wails of passing ambulance sirens, drowned out the music. Carlos looked up from his cleaning and spoke to his two companions.

“It seems the show has come to us tonight.”

Carlos looked out his window and saw three men dressed in white looking down at a stretcher, bickering among themselves. He smirked and ran his finger over the mouse’s head. As the last notes of Ave Maria filled the room, he looked up to the yellow clouded moon.

“Call back your demons and let them rest, for I have relinquished one in turn tonight.” Carlos reached out into the night and slowly closed the window.