Alexandra Cromwell has been trying to summon the Dark Lord for, oh, going on about a century now. The other witches from the coven laugh behind her back. They say, “Silly Alexandra, believing in fairy tales. Silly Alexandra, thinking she can summon the Goat of Mendes all by herself. Silly Alexandra.”
Eye of newt, horn of toad, egg of snake...
She drops the ingredients one by one into her cauldron.
We’ll see who cackles last.
There is, of course, some debate within the circles about the veracity of the story of the Dark Lord, the Goat of Mendes, the Scourge. Some witches believe that the Dark Lord is simply a story, a metaphor, a representation of the ‘force’ that floats around shapelessly in the Universe, giving them their power and wisdom and eternal life. Yadda yadda. Of course, witches like Alexandra know the truth. The Dark Lord is real, and he walks amongst us, in the shadows, waiting. Watching.
Young witches these days have forgotten who they truly serve.
Wool of bat, tongue of dog… unicorn spine…
The concoction stinks to high heaven—or, rather, deepest hell. Alexandra titters softly to herself. Yes, collecting the ingredients had been rather… problematic. And of course there was the whole matter of collecting them at exactly the right time, when the moon was full or when a black cat had circled cattails growing on a bog approximately thirteen times…
That old broomstick.
Funnily enough, though, the final ingredient had been the easiest to collect.
Children love candy. Adore candy. Would die for candy, especially on this night of nights, on Halloween, when the little heathens come screaming out of their homes for tricks or treats.
This time, Cassie Johanson got a trick. A wonderfully clever trick at that, if Alexandra did say so herself. Just a drop of sleeping potion on a candy apple, and it was nighty-night for the little ghoul.
Sometimes it’s the cheapest tricks that are the best.
Cassie Johnson shivers in her sleep. Nightmares, probably.
“Not long now, child,” Alexandra says, stroking the girl’s blonde hair. “No more bad dreams for you.”
The potion bubbles and froths in the cauldron, first green and bruise blue, then a shade of purple, as found in the deepest, lightless parts of the cosmos. Purple so dark it’s almost black. It bubbles until it stills, and emanating from its very depths is the stench of sulfur.
It’s time.
Alexandra unsheathes the ceremonial dagger from her thigh.
She whispers the words.
“Khandar estrada....”
She glides closer to the child, dagger in one hand and a silver bowl in the other.
“Khandos thrus!”
She raises the dagger over her head, wicked blade grinning in the candle light of the witch’s infernal dungeon.
“Indactu nosfrandus!”
Thunder rings out from the cauldron, the contents of which have turned a stormy sort of black, spitting out lightning and--can you hear it? The shrieking of tormented souls?
“KHANDAR!”
Alexandra is yelling now, arm rearing back, preparing to strike--
“TRICK OR TREAT!”
Children! Pesky children, shouting at her door and pounding it down. Lice! Pests!
She puts her blade and bowl on the ground, and stomps up the stairs of the basement. Flings the door open.
“Get out of here!” she yells. “Get out of here before I turn you all into toads!”
The children scatter, laughing and shrieking, thinking this all a wonderful game. Alexandra swears: next year, she will turn them all into toads, with the Dark Lord’s help and blessing.
“Now, where was I…”
“Looking for this?”
A voice calls from the shadows of her home, just next to the chimney. (She really ought to sweep those cobwebs away.) Or, no, in the kitchen?
“Cassie Johanson… is that you?”
Alexandra peers into the darkness, wand poised for a fight.
“That’s right, you dumb witch! Come get me!”
TO BE CONTINUED!
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