Guest Witch Story: DIE SOON by W.

This story comes to us courtesy of long-time commenter W. , who blogs over at Because I Can. I love this story so much. The narrator has a great Lovecraftian tone and it ends so awesomely. Oh, I just got the title! A little slow on the uptake, here. But that is also awesome.

Die Soon

by W.

It has been 83 days since I got a good night’s sleep.  Eighty-three endless days since Mother brought the witch home.

I have no idea why Mother would bring such a hateful thing into our peaceful home and can only conclude that it has bewitched her.  Her behavior around the witch is very odd.  When it leaves its nest in the small room among the coats she constantly follows it around and struggles with it for control.  On rare occasions even Father struggles with the witch and its hell spawned tentacle.  Yet the enchantment is so strong that they both shame me when I try to warn them of its evil, sometimes even humiliating me with their laughter and ridicule as I try to scare the witch into fleeing.

I have tried to predict when the witch will come rushing out of its nest among the presents Mother thinks we don’t know about, but I have not yet been successful in predicting its behavior.  There is rarely any warning before it is suddenly roaming the house filling the air with its unholy screeching, its single cloudy eye suddenly bright with an infernal glow.  It knows where I keep my treasures and constantly takes them.  You no doubt will judge me harshly for cowering in the corner as the witch steals my treasures, but the memory of its waving tentacle grabbing me and trying to suck my soul down into whatever hell it comes from haunts my dreams and makes rational thought difficult when I hear the screeching.

Sleep eludes me and I fear for the children.  Thus far the witch has only come out in the daylight, but I know its kind.  One night soon it will charge from its nest among the broken action figures and stray blocks to try and take the children.  I tried to sleep by the childrens’ door, but Mother and Father insist that I sleep in my own bed so I must constantly sneak into the hall and back to bed before they discover me out of bed.  The lack of sleep is becoming a problem and I am showing the physical toll.  My tail sags listlessly, my ears droop pitifully, and I no longer have the energy to play Get The Ball with the children.  I can barely even eat the bread balls Mother gives me when I feel unwell.

Others are starting to notice my difficulties as well and I feel that I must put an end to the witch before the Squirrels notice my laxness.  I fear I must attack it the next time it rushes screeching from its nest in the dark under the stairs.  I will die soon, but I will protect my family from the evil witch Dyson to the very end.


Fuck, a house can’t kill me. Please. Some fucking timber? Not even on fire? Not going to do it. Take my shoes, I’ll take my socks and I’m going to do some laundry. You know why? Because the shoes aren’t shit.

Enough people have already pointed out, so I don’t have to do it again, that when you’re casting about for bad witches, look for the smiling asshole who let a little girl wander around with three degenerates the whole time getting the shit scared out of her, getting loaded up on opium, and finally getting put in a hot air balloon with a con artist, before she’s all “Oh, you could have gone home whenever you wanted.”

That’s the good witch?

Fuck that shit.

I wish I had died. You know what it’s like to sit in your house, listening to it creak and settle, thinking every step is your sister, come back to you? Try having a motherfucking secret—like, oh, hey, I’m alive—burning a hole in your chest and all you want is to pick up the phone and share it with the person who you’ve been closest to your whole life and no place to call. No one to answer.

Maybe she was a monster, but she was my monster.

I’ve been dreaming about water— vast clear oceans, shimmering lakes, deep brown rivers. And in my dreams, I’m running toward it, that water, and I’m throwing my hat aside, peeling off my dress, kicking off those ruby slippers, the sun warm on my emerald skin. And when I leap in, I go out like a match thrown in a toilet. No pain, just fhht. And I’m over. Flush me down, get ready for the next ass.

I’m too afraid to try it in real life. Fuck. All I can think about is her screaming, “I’m melting, I’m melting.” And I don’t want to go out like that.

Do I blame the girl? No. I mean, I wish. Blame the girl, you just hunt her down, rip her arm off, and eat it while she watches. Hell, I wouldn’t even have to find her to kill her damn dog. I could get even so fucking easily. I’d be the Courtney Love of getting even, all pissed and a fucking mess and somehow still setting the world on fire.

But shit happens. People get lied to. People get hurt. And sometimes the truth is worse. Sometimes the people you love most are terrible and wicked and probably got what was coming to them. If everyone had to be an angel to be loved, we’d all be in trouble.

Still, just because the world is better off without her doesn’t mean I am, you know?


You ever dream that you’re falling and what wakes you up is the feeling like you’ve just hit your mattress? It’s disconcerting. Were you floating and fell? Was your consciousness out of your body and pulled hard, back in?

Anyway, that’s kind of how I’m feeling. Like I’ve been pulled to earth and I didn’t even know I was flying.

Just Me and the Black Squares

All I have left are the black squares in the afghan. They are slowly coming along. I don’t know how many rows I’m going to end up with, just that I need an even amount. I’m halfway through row 24 now. I thought about just stopping here, but I’d like to see if I can get 26 rows. Then I have to tuck all those ends. But then I get to start sewing things together and seeing how this shapes up.

My dad called to say that their cat’s been missing since Thursday. It got out and ran off. This is unlike the cat who usually ventured no further than the garage or porch and only when my mom and dad were with it and wanted to come back in the house with them. They’ve got a neighbor kid watching to see if it turns up at the old house and they’ve been leaving the garage door open in case it’s still around the neighborhood and today they’ll go and check the shelters. But the running off is so unlike it that my dad and I are both of the opinion that it went off somewhere to die. Simon was a kitten when Mrs. Wigglebottom was a pup, so I guess that’s pretty old for a cat.

I’m sad for my parents though, and hate for them that they don’t know for sure.

Hope can sometimes be a fucker.

I do my reading tomorrow night. I have 15 minutes and I guess the band gets 30? I just decided that I’m taking 20. Fuck it. I want to read three things and, even if they’re just five minutes a piece, things take time between.

A dude who’s never met me painted my portrait. You can go see it at East Side Story, if you want. I have mixed feelings about it. I think he got my smile right. S. says he doesn’t do my hair justice.

I feel weird, with my lack of success, being called a Nashville writer, except for in the political blogger sense. And I’m not sure I quite understand why anyone would want to paint a portrait of me. But I’m trying to be gracious because it’s kind of a fuckerly thing to do to let your own hangups get in the way of appreciating something in the spirit in which it was given.