Aar's POV:-
At first I thought it was all a joke. An obtuse unfunny Witch Moon Day prank played on us all by Marra The Witch-Breather (I came up with that name, not long after he told me and Bee about his deep dark, witch-CPR origins) on his birthday. Not uncharacteristic of him, if we’re being honest here. Which I guess we are.
But no. No, no, nopety nopety nope. Nopesy. Nooope. Nah. Napalm, gasoline, nope. Truck, car, scooter, nope.
(Sorry, this might be the jetlag taking toll. It could also be the trauma of remembering the incident. Either way, my brain isn’t in the right place. Get a hammer, chainsaw, get it right, boys!)
(What on earth is wrong with me? Why am I saying all this?)
(And get off me, See! Why don’t you go sniff the pilot?)
Back to the story.
Okay. I have two words.
Horrifying. Horrifying.
(Yeah, those're the two words, couldn’t think of better ones. I’m an actor, not some fancy playwright!)
Like, how do I put it?
Say there’s this really, really nice guy you know. Generous, kind to everyone, all smiles and no complaints. The type your parents might compare you to. Then one day he plays an absolutely vile, hateable villain in an annual day play and you just can’t look at him the same way again.
This was similar, only – guess what – Marra can’t act. And he wasn’t. Acting, I mean.
All I know is, we were watching the news to keep our eyes off the repelling sight of him slurping blood and then all of a sudden his back straightened up, as though someone had poked him in the back with a stick. His shoulders hunched. His vertebrae cracked in the most unnatural manner, a sickly succession of poppy 'pops' running down his spine.
His cerise fingers drummed over his face, spreading his appetite all over it.
Soon enough, he was convulsing, shaking pretty bad, and we realized it wasn’t a joke and started yelling and his Dad ran at him and it was all panicky and unclear.
Marra’s normally blunt buck-teeth became razor-edged, sharp and deadly as we saw him bite down into his father’s concerned hand.
A collective gasp went up amongst us.
‘WHAT IS HAPPENING?’ I yelled, my heart leaping into my throat as a fresh pool of blood drizzled down from the point of contact of Marra's newfound fangs and his father’s wrist.
Then Marra looked up, and we saw his eyes, all of us. Not a shred of white in them.
Red, pure, unadulterated red. The same shade as what he was draining from his Dad.
And shiny, yes, how can I forget that? His eyes glowed like the sun, if the sun had a dimmer, meaner younger brother, I mean.
He looked almost photo-shopped. You could take a click of him and it’d make the cover of any Clive Barker novel out there (he’s a horror author, Bee told me; that’s how scary story covers are like, right? Right? Never read one for myself, always feared I’d pee myself and why put the effort of reading when ultimately it’s just going to make you do laundry? Pfft, I'll never get horror fanatics.)
Whoo, the jet-lag is intense.
Anyhow, all of us stood frozen there on the spot as a faint little smile touched the rim of Marra's blood-laden lips.
‘Hail the Coven,' he said in a voice that belonged to an old man who hadn’t spoken in a decade.
Then he returned to his feast. His Dad screamed – it was hard to listen to a grown man scream like that – but I doubted the noise even grazed Marra's ears.
He made strange guzzling noises as he continued to drain his own Dad.
A little squeal escaped my larynx.
‘Hail the Coven,' Marra's Uncle – the one-armed Mr. Om, we like to call him – repeated in a whisper, as if he had just realized something. Of course, later we’d get to know how much those three words meant to him, but at that moment we had no idea.
I distinctly remember having a full existential crisis then, telling myself then that this wasn’t Marra, this wasn’t my friend, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be him, it couldn’t be him, it was a monster, maybe a spirit had possessed him – his eyes – his muscles – yes get a priest – just do something – his Dad is bleeding! – come on, Aar, move a joint! – hail the Coven – what is going on – where am I –
Bee was on it before my panic-attack even ended properly.
‘Es,' she said, wafting her hand – which I noticed was quaking, and for good reason – impatiently at me. 'Es. Where’s Es?’
Her eyes didn’t leave Marra.
Deciding I had better did something lest I regret it later on, I started looking everywhere for our spirit-friend.
No use.
Es was gone. Along with the rest of spirits, she was gone. The only one who could maybe - just maybe - help us out in this situation was gone.
Happy Witch Moon Day to you too.
Hope y'all are liking the story so far. I am, and personally, I think it's going to get so, so, so much better progressively (and I'm not saying this because I'm the author).
Whatever. Didn't need to say that. Just wanted to thank my readers.
I have a few words to share.
Vote. Comment.
Love. You.
Those were the words. Aight, I'm outta here. Thanks for reading again.