Her Drafty Shadow
Your spine shudders when she passes. The hair on the backs of dogs bristles when her shadow passes. When she rides the bus, even the mentally ill persons, usually in the bowels of a fit of Tourettes, are silent. Since she moved to my neighborhood, I’ve noticed that the normally placid cats are up in arms against each other; their wails and hissing filling the night air.
I first encountered her in downtown. I simply wanted to go home, but there she was - like some witch riding the bus like it was her broomstick. Upon her long nose sat a pair of unfashionable glasses. She had a chocolate pudding double chin. She wore several sweaters, trying to contain a warmth that wasn’t there. Shunned from the back of the bus where the other crazies lived, she sat in the very front.
Yet, she occupied my usual spot on the bus and, being a stubborn man of habit, I sat next to her. I attempted to relieve my uneasiness of this dark witch by talking to her. Big mistake. She came on to me as some sort of unholy, damned strumpet. The hellish harlot parted ways with my number in her telephone and, just like that, the story was underway.
I was awakened that weekend by a foreboding nightmare. However it parted vaguely, like a fog being burned away. As I rubbed my eyes, the phone rang. She invited me to coffee. How could I turn it down? Besides, the coffee shop was walking distance from my house.
Along my walk, I observed the sunrise. What began as a burnt umber color gradually turned scarlet and later to a brilliant crimson. Hmmm, red sky in the morning. “Must be a good sign,” I thought, “red is my favorite color.”
The most remarkable thing I found about the café was that the Halloween decorations seemed far too authentic. The drabby, faded black curtains, functioning as room dividers, were torn. The windows that were there were frosted. In all corners, and on the curtains as well, were spider’s webs. A rather pale and gaunt man with dark stubble served my Café Mocha. Sure the coffee was good so early in the morning, but why did the cream taste like it had turned bad and the chocolate feel slightly grainy?
Upon a torn couch in a dark corner sat the saccharine siren. She was again overdressed for the environment which made me feel cold. I looked around. This particular coffee shop was deserted. It was not right. It was definitely not right. I took a sip of my hot beverage and sat next to her.
“Glad you made it,” she said, “I hope this wasn’t too early.”
“Not too bad,” I said, “but I do feel drowsy.”
“Drink up.”
“Well, that’s not right. Do you want something?”
“I’m… not thirsty… for coffee.”
Something seemed to be wrong with her canine teeth, but I dismissed it and continued on with my small talk, “Well, I guess today will be a sunnier day than when I first met you. Come to think of it, I don’t think there was any sun that day. It was quite cloudy,” the uneasiness I had felt since entering took over and I rambled on for 10 minutes about clouds and their significance to world events and ancient history, such as how, had it been cloudy on the day that Joshua slay the Amorites in the defense of Gibeonites, he would not have prayed that God hold the sun motionless in the sky. I admit, I am a bit of a bible geek. She didn’t seem to enjoy it when I referenced the bible.
“Do you usually talk this much?” she asked.
“I -“ and that was the last thing I said, for I fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, I was tied across a washing machine and a dryer in what I could only assume was her laundry room. “Wha-?” I said in my haze.
“Oh my, you ARE going to be a tasty one,” she said, “but first we’re going to have a little fun.” She lit a candle. I noticed 12 in all, most waiting to be lit.
I couldn’t talk. It was too much effort. It had to be that coffee. I knew it tasted funny. All I could do was watch this temptress dressed in soft, black satin glide across the room and light one candle with another until the white concrete walls reflected brilliantly the wax light. It felt as if some sort of ancient Satanic right were about to be performed upon me.
After observing my environment, my eyes turned to myself. My shoes, socks and shirt were off. Below my denim jeans I noticed that my legs were tied with bungy cord. The same was true of my wrists.
After she lit all the candles, she came to me. I struggled against the cords, but it was no use. “Just lie still,” she said, “I’ll make sure your last moments are enjoyable ones.” After that, she began stroking my hair with her right hand. I was cursing the fact that I used conditioner that day. She continued. Next, she moved to my thick chest her. Again, I was cursing the fact that I used conditioner that day.
Next, she took one of the candles and poured droplets of wax on my shoulders and hips. Suddenly I noticed that my pants were moist. I looked down and realized that I had a powerful hard on and I knew what had happened.
Finally, she took out a knife. That was when I REALLY got nervous. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I promise I won’t bite.” She laughed, showing her vampire fangs. I was confused, so I asked her, “Are you a vampire or a witch?”
“You mean to tell me that you don’t believe that both are possible?”
It was then that I heard those normally jovial neighborhood cats fiercely attack outside the basement window. She began to cut my right arm from my elbow to my wrist. I winced at the pain and felt the red warmth trickle through the gouge and trickle down the washing machine. I noticed that in her bloodlust, she cut too far and nearly snapped the bungy cord. I saw her eyes dilate and she dove straight for the estuary of blood flowing from my arm.
Suddenly, the basement window broke! The two cats who were fighting burst into this basement torture chamber and immediately attacked the witch. The cats were soon followed by more critters; squirrels, even rabbits. I used the opportunity to snap the bungy cord and untie myself.
She fought off the critters until, one-by-one, they were dashed against the wall, leaving me as her only victim. By then I was free and behind one of the washing machines. I faked first one way, then another, but finally she came at me. I tripped, she missed, flew over me into a 6 foot long pine box. I threw the top on as quick as I could.
I frantically searched for something to fasten the lid down. Conveniently, I found a hammer next to the box and a crate marked Caution: Poisoned Tipped Nails. I began hammering. A muffled voice cried from within the box, “NOOO! Those were for YOOOOU!!” I didn’t stop hammering. Adrenaline took over. In my frenzy, I began hammering nails randomly into the lid. Then I flipped the makeshift coffin and I hammered more into the back. Soon enough, the muffled sounds stopped. I grabbed my shirt and shoes and ran for it. As I ran I thought of how ironic it was that a witch-vampire should die in a claustrophobic box filled with poisoned needles.
Life somewhat went back to normal. There are a few changes however. I no longer ride the bus. I walk to work. I have a long scar on my arm that I have to lie about whenever someone asks me about it. Red is no longer my favorite color. I break out in a cold sweat whenever I see a short, dark-skinned woman wearing glasses. It’s the shadows, you know? The shadows. Those drafty shadows that fill me with terror.
I have also developed some strange carnal urges of a kind I never felt before. I prefer to go out at night now and the sun hurts my eyes more than usual. I crave meat constantly and almost always demand it raw.
I don’t know. I think I need therapy. After a few months, I think I will get better and this will all be behind me.
True
