This issue of Terror Tales (Vol. 2 No. 6, November 1970) is all but done. Let's finish things. Let us pad barefoot up to the bedside of this slumbering issue of Terror Tales and press a pillow over the mouth and nose. The blood rushes hotly to our face as we lean into our work with full weight; and it feels as though a terrified animal were thrashing beneath our hands, beneath the pillow, compressed now and thin - so thin we can feel the nose, the chin, the eye-sockets beneath the crushed stuffing. The muffled screaming is how the deaf must hear terror - a sound without air - a tremor we can feel against our palms. Finally, the last spasms of life are surrendered into the still, dark air of the room. Near the bed, a curtain makes a moonlit ripple at an open window. The clock ticks on the wall like a fingernail tapping glass. The air of the room is ice upon our skin as sweat runs along our cheek, down our neck. Somewhere, far away in the night - a dog gives up a high, shrill yip; sounding youthful and human in its . . . pain? Sorrow? Crickets 'neath the window trill. There now. Be still. Rest, issue of Terror Tales, go into that lightless region where all is forgotten thus never forgiven. But Wait! The death shudder has produced two last tales!About this first tale, "Broom For A Witch", the gentle wordsmiths at Eerie Pub. offer this introduction at the Table of Contents: "A shocking, evil story of a broom-riding witch who terrified an innocent couple."Download THIS POST!
Are we not all puppets, inert and lifeless in our energies - in our daily routines, until some blessing or curse fills us with either darkness or light? Why? Why are the wicked so strong? Why is the light so easily covered with the velvet, still darkness? Oh, dear reader, not only is our flesh weak, but our souls can by swept away like dead leaves by any tempting, sweet wind. Fire! Fire will cleanse our souls be the vessel of flesh or wood (as this next story will demonstrate)!
The deed is done, and the measured moments pass, returning a normalcy. Finally, our breathing becomes even, and our heart no longer pulses against the wall of our ribs like some hammer of muscle. We remove the pillow slowly, and the expression beneath is dreamlike - perhaps surprised, with the eyes large and mouth open slightly. But there is no trace of pain or the fear as expected. There is no sign of the committed sin upon the features, only a slack and graceful peace. But, dear friend, when we walk on stiff legs from the room, we pass a mirror on the wall. We see our white, moist face - like a luminous piece of chalk - reflected there in the passing. And the eyes. The eyes shimmer in black sin; and they watch us.