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India Crowley, Shadowbrook Arms’ resident witch, stood
a moment as if in prayer. In the
torchlight, with her shadow cast on the wall, she swayed back and forth, leaped
awkwardly into the air, and began pirouetting across the lawn. It was difficult for her friend and
co-host, Irma Fresco, not to believe that she was drunk or under the influence
of drugs. India was, in addition
to being a vegetarian and non-smoker, a teetotaler, and yet she appeared
intoxicated and out of control.
Her long black dress, pointed hat, and cape seemed out of place in this
crowd. The sound of Morgana and
the Living Dead was not synchronized with the movements she made. A more fitting score for India, Irma
felt, would have been Camille Saint Saen’s Dance Macabre. A more appropriate place to perform
would have been in the privacy of her own home. India was not even trying to dance to the music, for it
seemed as if she had a symphony playing inside her head. Irma saw her pause, cup her ear as if
Lucifer, himself, were speaking, roll her green eyes around in their sockets,
shake, spin, and stop abruptly as if she were suddenly possessed.
As
India performed her silly dance, Irma shuddered and looked away. Every Halloween India would put on her
witch costume and try to get everyone in the mood. No one had taken her seriously at Shadowbrook Arms until
tonight. Halloween normally fell
during the workweek. Except for
the few trick-or-treaters in the complex, this holiday had been limited to
short-lived gatherings around the pool, in which India would giggle, dance
around foolishly awhile, and mingle in the crowd.
This
time Halloween was on a Saturday, which meant tenants would be rested up enough
to participate and still be able to recuperate the next day. It was typically cool for late October,
and yet several people were in the Jacuzzi and pool. The theme tonight was supposed to be the occult. Only a few tenants, other than India
and herself, however, had worn a costume or even donned a mask. Irma’s devil’s costume, which India
coaxed her to wear, was too tight.
The horns on her hood were crooked, and, for some reason, her pitchfork,
which looked more like Neptune’s trident, was too big. Added to the glasses magnifying her
blue eyes, the suit covering her girlish frame made her appear cute and comical
instead of scary: a nearsighted and underfed she-devil with a goatee penciled
sloppily by India onto her chin.
Tonight’s
party offered many treats for Shadowbrook Arms: food, drink, camaraderie, and a
chance to watch India perform as a witch.
She would give them a good show.
No longer would they see her as an amateur or make-believe witch. She would have a captive audience,
primed with alcohol and food. It
would, Irma warned her, prove disastrous if she carried things too far. She must not go overboard this time, as
she had in the past. It was, she
reminded India, her last chance for fame; everything else she had done in the
past had been a rehearsal until tonight.
But
already, during India’s performance, Irma could see the stirrings of her
friend’s metamorphosis and the emergence of a dark period of India’s life. India’s prelude was not part of the
program, and it was not what they had agreed upon today. She was supposed to give a
demonstration of witchcraft, using some of the ritual tools of her craft,
nothing more. Instead of the
friendly witches’ waltz she normally improvised for the occasion, however, she
began doing the dance of the sorceress leading up to the Black Mass.
For
several moments, as she made her debut, Irma, a man in a vampire’s costume, and
a women dressed up like a mummy, stood there on the grass, glancing
self-consciously at each other, grimly appraising India’s dance. They had become, in the words of Buck
Logan, the “ghoul squad,” officially part of India’s coven, but, in reality,
merely her friends. Occasionally,
she would hear a shout from the patio aimed at either India, herself, or the
vampire and mummy standing in the crowd.
The most embarrassing catcall came from Jim Courtney, who shouted “Irma,
you horny devil, you!,” while
Tom Wellitz and Ed Montez crept up in back of her and played with her tail.
The
worst humiliation Irma had suffered so far, however, was right in front of her:
India Crowley, her co-host, best friend, and the master of
ceremonies—Shadowbrook Arm’s very own resident witch.
******
When
her dance was over, India stood there awhile longer staring inappropriately at
the sky.
“Oh
Lucifer,” she cried pompously “give me wisdom tonight that I may do your
will. Make these, your children,
believers. Punish those who mock
me in my trial!”
Unable
to believe her ears, Irma stood there at the forefront of the onlookers,
feeling their discontent. “It’s
only a demonstration folks,” she tried to play it down. “India’s giving us an
example of the Black Mass.”
“
. . . Make me strong Lucifer,” she continued after a pause, “put the right
words into my mouth. Make them
listen to me, your servant India, in my hour of trial!”
“Psst
India,” Irma tried getting her attention, “are you nuts? This isn’t what you planned!”
Already,
there was hostility in the audience.
With expressions of righteous indignation, Sam Burns, the apartment
manager, and his fiancée, Alice Wagnall, who were staunch Christians, began
making their way through the crowd.
Others in the audience, who were less bold, shook their heads and turned
away. In spite of these danger
signals, India started the next phase of her production, with a look of ecstasy
on her face. She began mixing
Satanism, voodoo, and witchcraft together in her rites. A series of hand movements in the air,
indicating an upside cross, was followed by what sounded like voodoo chanting,
then an incantation, using pig Latin and backward spoken words. Afterwards, to everyone’s amazement,
she reached around below her and began throwing in dried leaves, dead insects,
and one live toad into a cauldron on the lawn. Into the pot she also tossed dirt, several handfuls of
grass, and a small, shriveled up bat.
As a finishing touch, she plucked a snail from a hedge nearby, and,
after adding water from the pool, began stirring this concoction and mumbling
lines from MacBeth:
Double,
double toil and trouble;
Fire
burn and cauldron bubble.
Eye
of newt and toe of frog,
Wool
of bat and tongue of dog,
Lizard’s
leg and howlet’s wing.
From
the cauldron below, a hidden sheet of dry ice reacted to the water thrown
in. The carbon dioxide vapor rose
mysteriously up into the night, indicating that her potion was just right, and
yet one of the main ingredients, the toad, jumped out of the cauldron and began
hopping across the lawn. Her
recitation from MacBeth had been just a warm-up. It was time to show them her stuff and begin casting
spells. India demonstrated all
phases of her art then, from black magic mumbo-jumbo to an attempt to conjure
up spirits from the dead. After
awhile of this showmanship, however, she heard rebukes from the audience, as
this last outrage sank in.
“Sacrilege! You’ve gone too far!” cried Sam.
“Call
on your master if you will,” Alice followed “but only Christ can raise the dead!”
Afterwards,
in what seemed like a chain reaction, she heard more protests, such as “This is
offensive!” and “It’s an outrage against God!”
Recognizing
the manager and his fiancé’s voice among the dissenters, she felt momentarily
shaken, but continued with her spell, calling on Ashtoreth, Moloch, and Baal to
appear in the vapor, until other voices, including her friends, brought her
down to earth.
Looking
up from her cauldron then, she followed Irma’s example and explained to her
audience that this was merely a demonstration of the black arts and not the
real thing. Sam, Alice, and
several others, who had seen enough, had already exited, but a surprising
number of tenants hung on, amused by what they saw. More and more tenants continued to arrive as India
performed, drawn more by the music, commotion, and food. Among these later guests Wanda Craven
and, not long after, Neva Bravnic, the two women India hated most in the world,
appeared on the scene. Before she
realized what she was doing, India began casting a spell against the two women,
mumbling lines, which had nothing to do with MacBeth. Lapsing into what Irma knew was black magic again, she
wiggled her long fingers over the cauldron. With her eyes tightly shut and her lips moving feverishly as
she chanted, India uttered what sounded like nonsense to Irma, until Irma
remembered something she had read.
“Wait
a minute,” she slapped her forehead, “this isn’t a witches spell. It’s devil-worship--a diabolic rite!” “India,” she said aloud, “you’re
quoting Satanism again, not MacBeth.
You’re supposed to be a white witch, not this evil crone! Snap
out of it woman! You’ve driving everyone away!”
But
India would not listen to her. By
the time she had finished her incantation, everyone except Irma, her two other
friends, and a few late arrivals, had grown tired of her nonsense and began
socializing on the patio or lounging with others in the Jacuzzi or the
pool. As her audience disappeared,
she grew frantic and began ringing her hands. It had all came apart, she believed, when Wanda and Neva
arrived. They had jinxed her
somehow and spoiled the mood. Not
one to give up, however, she tried other forms of black magic to win them all
back. She tried making a magic
circle. She recited her favorite
portion of the Book of Shadows—Wicca’s index of magic and mysticism, and, after
running out of quotes, recited chilling portions of the Satanic Bible written
by Anton LaVey. For several
moments, India exhibited her knowledge of the dark arts and flare for both
drama and the occult. But it was
too late; her moment of glory had passed.
She had made a complete spectacle of herself.
After
attempting a séance with her friends, she gave up in despair, blaming her
failure on their lack of concentration and faith. She withdrew to the far end of the lawn then, her long pale
arms rising up to the sky. Her
voice, now hoarse from shouting, became shrill, almost demonic, as she asked
Satan to curse Shadowbrook Arms. A
special malediction was leveled against Wanda Craven, Neva Bravnic, and their
friends. When she returned, she
skipped, cart wheeled, and broke into another dance, as if some cosmic secret
had just been revealed. What she
failed to accept, even now, was that no one cared. She had blasphemed against God. She had shown a complete lack of sensitivity and good taste.
While
she did her dance, the vampire and mummy stole away sheepishly to get out of
their costumes, resurfacing that hour with drinks in their hands, as if they
had just arrived. There was no
question at that point who had stolen the show. Wanda Craven and Neva Bravnic had taken the spotlight away
from Shadowbrook’s witch. While
several of the men competed for their attention, the few women left in the
water glanced with mixed emotions their way.
Finally,
while still in her devil’s costume, Irma discarded her pitchfork permanently
for a drink. It was not just a
Halloween charade for India anymore.
Her dance macabre had become serious business for her—her last chance
for fame. She began disrobing as
she danced, tossing her cape, dress, and pointed shoes onto the lawn. Her black slip clung to her shapeless
frame, emphasizing her complete lack of curves. Her long, stringy dark hair, laced with sweat, was truly
witch-like as it whipped around her face and neck. As she pirouetted again across the lawn, Irma could see more
tenants departing, until, at one point, they began leaving in droves. It was late and they were tired. Enough was enough, they mumbled amongst
themselves. Many of them turned
for one last look as they left the scene.
But the remaining men (Tom Wellitz, Buck Logan, Jim Courtney, Ed Montez,
and Drew Connors) ignored her antics completely as they crowded around Wanda
Craven and Neva Bravnic in the pool.
The two women, unlike India, were not working on mere adrenaline. They were becoming progressively
drunk. It had also seemed to Irma,
as she sipped her second and then third beer, that they were encouraging these
men. She had heard titillating
stories about them from India. It
never occurred to her that Wanda and Neva were anything more the nymphomaniacs
that India claimed them to be or that her gossip might be based upon hearsay,
innuendos, or lies.
Irma
had watched the party progress from an innocent poolside barbecue to a wild
free flowing bash. She had
witnessed many of her neighbors transform from casual participants to
happy-go-lucky revelers, ready for a good time. But she could not have imagined what was in store for Shadowbrook’s
tenants tonight.
After
most of them had tired of the festivities and gone to bed, Tom, Buck, Jim, Ed,
Drew, Wanda, and Neva lingered in the pool. She alone watched the finale to India’s dance. The five men continued to compete for
Wanda and Neva’s affection, while she remained faithful to her friend: a lone
sentinel representing Lucifer, the Prince of Hell.
******
As
she pulled the devil’s hood off her head, her short, disheveled black hair
sprang out in all directions.
Slowly she turned, adjusted her wire frame glasses on her little nose,
and looked wistfully across the pool.
It had been a personal disaster for India Crowley. The remaining tenants were in the
Jacuzzi at that moment, after progressing from the pool. Their laughter had softened to a quiet
fellowship that only they could hear.
But in the background, with the radio turned off, a terrible silence had
set in. She knew that India had
stopped dancing and that she perceived herself as a flop. After tonight’s debacle, it was obvious
to Irma that India, after dabbling in her black arts for so long, had slipped
finally over the edge.
As
she looked back at where India had been, she saw her shadow silhouetted against
the wall. The tiki torches made
her seem ten feet tall. She had become
almost statuesque. Her head was
down and her shoulders were slumped.
As she stood in front of the flickering light, Irma felt both pity and
disgust for her friend. India
wanted approval and recognition for her art. Irma had, with the greatest patience, watched her rehearse
and then stood on the sidelines as she began her performance, coaching her when
her antics grew increasingly bizarre.
India, however, had not followed the script. The advice Irma had given her—don’t overdo it, avoid black
magic, and keep it short—had been ignored until it was too late.
While India gave everyone the evil eye and slipped
back into her dress, the five men made a tightening circle around Wanda and
Neva. In friendly competition they
edged closer and closer to the women.
No longer satisfied with mere flirtation, however, they seemed to be
casting lots for the pair. It was
obvious to Irma, after listening to India’s gossip, what they had in mind. More ominous to Irma now, was the
darkening expression on India’s face as she watched the activities in the
Jacuzzi. Finally, after a
clandestine exchange of words, Irma watched, with mixed emotions, as the women
and their admirers began climbing out of the water. As they stood shivering by the edge, Wanda and Neva were again
surrounded by men. In spite of
India’s efforts to ruin their good names, Irma felt no resentment toward
them. She had envied them in the
past for having so many male admirers, but she did not envy them now. She suddenly felt sorry for them. Her imagination ran amuck a moment as
she watched them lead the five men upstairs, and she sensed, even in her dulled
state of mind, that something dreadful was about to happen to them
tonight. She could not have imagined
that it would happen to her too.
Had she not been momentarily drawn into her own thoughts and getting
progressively drunk, herself, she would have been alarmed at the way India
behaved…. She was not just angry with Neva and Wanda tonight; she was angry
with everyone at Shadowbrook Arms, including her best friend.
******
At
this point, India’s eyelids drew together into evil slits. Though she had temporarily lost her
voice, she emitted a strange and unsettling wheeze. Her gaze, for that matter, told her friend that someone was
going to suffer for tonight. Irma
assumed this meant Wanda and Neva.
As they were exiting, however, her gaze swept the others too and also
fell upon her. Everyone here at
Shadowbrook Arms, she conveyed, had offended her, including Irma Fresco. They
were all going to pay!
Irma
now wondered what was going on inside India’s dark skull. Would she cast a spell on her
enemies? Would she set the
apartment complex on fire? Why
would anyone take her seriously after tonight? Although she felt sorry for her friend, India had asked for
it. She would not listen to
her. In spite of Irma’s warnings
and the reaction of her audience, she had continued on recklessly throughout
the evening. By the time Wanda and
Neva had arrived, she had already gone overboard. So it was absurd for her to blame them for her
mistakes. She had, on her own
volition, ignoring sound logic and good taste, self-destructed. As always, she had gone too far, tried
to do too much, and broken every rule in the book. Because of her loyalty to India Crowley, she, as Lucifer,
the Prince of Darkness, like her mentor, would be a laughing stock at
Shadowbrook Arms.
For several moments, Irma took advantage of the
cheap beer sitting in ice near the pool and continued to get drunk. In the past, when India had socially
slipped, Irma would smile at her and lead her gently away. Until now India could always rely on
her for comfort and reassuring words.
Tonight, however, Irma’s patience had been worn thin. India’s stupidity had been too much
even for her. Her amusement and
fascination with India’s eccentricity had turned to disgust and disdain. For the first time in her life, she had
deliberately gotten herself drunk.
Quickly, and without ceremony, she began blotting out tonight.
******
Out
of nowhere it seemed, the apartment manager and his fiancée now returned to the
scene. They had waited until the
party was over and India was alone to begin another attack. Sam, the manager, who was studying for
the seminary, and his fiancée Alice, had attempted, with little success, to
rehabilitate many of the tenants at Shadowbrook Arms. Irma, who was a Roman Catholic, had resented their
fundamentalist preaching, while India, Shadowbrook’s witch and their hardest
case, had always been amused.
Tonight, Irma reflected with a smile, the situation was reversed. She found this particular episode
entertaining. She was seeing India
get what she deserved. But this
time India was not amused.
Earlier, she recalled, Sam and Alice had gone on the attack. India, at that stage, seemed beyond
redemption. She had committed
heresy, sacrilege, and blasphemed God.
Now, after waiting for everyone to exit, they were suddenly back.
“It
is written:” Sam pointed accusingly at India “thou shall not suffer a witch!”
“The
Lord will not tolerate sorcery!” piped Alice.
“But
you’ve gone beyond mere witchcraft;” Sam waved his Bible “you’re a devil worshiper now!”
“The
Lord will not suffer devil-worship!” Alice chimed.
As
they began quoting passages from the Bible, Irma grew self-conscious,
withdrawing to a far corner of the lawn, until finally, she found herself
peeking over a hedge. India had
begun shouting profanities back at them.
Several of the tenants, Irma noted, were drawn back by the commotion and
looked down from the second floor balcony to see what was going on. Because they were used to their
manager’s preaching and had accepted India as their resident witch, most of
them returned to their apartments, snickering amongst themselves and shaking
their heads. Neva, Wanda and their
friends, however, made the mistake of laughing at her now.
In
a sudden and demonic rage, India’s eyes narrowed again, her nostrils flared,
and she pointed a trembling finger at everyone in sight. “You whores,” she pointed first at
Wanda and Neva, “shall know what the word alley cat means, because you’ll both become one!” “You, you, you, you, and you,” she
spoke bitterly to the five men, “shall regret your beastly behavior, because you’re
going to become exactly how you’ve behaved!” “And you two, my pets!” she turned to
Alice and Sam. “I have the same end planned
for you!”
Wringing
her bony fists, she vowed, in a crone-like voice, that they would all pay the
ultimate price for crossing the Shadowbrook Witch. But to Irma Fresco, who was hidden behind a bush, the
malediction had been dodged. Did
she mean her too? Irma wondered as she peeked over a branch. What had she done to offend her friend?
Raising
her pale arms to the sky, India cried “Oh Lucifer, come to me tonight in my
circle of lights. Do for me as you
have done for witches in the past.
Give me your magic for my immortal soul!”
After
heckling her awhile, the merrymakers departed the scene. While India had been threatening them,
Sam and Alice had playfully made the sign of the cross with their fingers. As the threat sank in, however, Irma
saw them flash frightened looks at each other as they shrank away. Irma, who wished she could somehow
disappear, herself, and reappear in her apartment without being caught, was now
trapped behind her bush. India had
not forgotten her. Had she not
openly criticized her tonight? Had
she not abandoned her during her darkest hour? Irma knew she had her in her sights. As she stood behind the hedge, she
could hear India humming madly under her breath. Slowly, sheepishly, with a beer in her hand, Irma left the
safety of her bush and began walking into the light.
She
did not want to suffer the others’ fate.
For several moments she waited for her friend to vent her wrath. It seemed as if India had some form of
group disaster in mind for the others.
She wondered what she had in mind for her. India just stood there quietly, though, as Irma returned to
the patio, appraising her it seemed, Irma wondering when India’s justly
deserved I-told-you-so would pop out
of her mouth. It was on the
tip of her tongue, ready to be launched as India evil-eyed her. For a few moments, she continued
sipping the beer in her hand, pretending not to notice the hostile look on
India’s face. It was like ignoring
an oncoming storm. The sound of
laughter fading topside indicated that the party was over. Perhaps, she thought fleetingly, it was
transferring to Wanda and Neva’s apartment. They were, she recalled India saying, both nymphomaniacs who
enjoyed endless sex. After only a
moment more of distant revelry, however, the complex became suddenly quiet, as
if the volume had been suddenly turned down. With the exception of a small clean-up crew working quietly
nearby, she found herself alone with her friend. With feline hostility, edging ever so close to her, India
toyed with Irma as if she were a mouse, and then slowly broke into a smile. Somehow, during this interval of time,
Irma managed to finish her beer, and bring another can up to her lips.
“You
embarrassed me tonight,” she heard India say.
“What?”
Irma swallowed noisily. “…You talkin’ to me?”
“Yes,
you uncouth little bitch I’m
talking to you!” Her green eyes
flashed. “Several times tonight you criticized me and made me look silly.”
“Silly?”
Irma made a face. “Me, India? You’re saying I made you look silly!”
Up-ending
her can, she took a long, sloppy swig of beer and looked vacantly at the
sky. She had, India now claimed,
not supported her at the party.
With her devil’s costume, she was supposed to mingle and act the
part. Instead, she had hung back
as if she was embarrassed. Now,
the reason she was getting drunk was because she was ashamed of herself. She was a coward and a worm! She
had failed her miserably tonight!
“India
. . . Poo-oor India!” Irma said between gulps “…. If I’m a worm, you’re a
maggot!
….
If I’m a coward, you’re a sacrilege against all that’s decent in life!”
Her
beer was taking effect. India knew
this too, and yet her green eyes continued to smolder with rage. After finishing up her fourth can of
beer, Irma felt invincible. She
was on a roll. As India elaborated
on her lack of backbone, the point finally came when both she and her friend
irrevocably crossed the line.
“Innn…
dia,” she said during a series of loud, unladylike belches “lay off me…. You
hear me woman, lay off!… I’m tired of your crap!… That’s all it is too, India,
crap!”
“Crap?”
India’s lips trembled and her fists clenched. “You think what I do is crap?
“Crap!”
she replied, taking a long swig. “C-r-a-p, crap!”
“You
want crap?” India eyed her fiercely “I’ll
give you crap!”
“Go
‘head, take yur besh shot!” Irma said with a slur.
She
was sinking fast. By now, she had
guzzled down her fifth and last beer and was thoroughly drunk. With the last rush of alcohol hitting
her empty stomach, the buildings around her and India Crowley began to fade in
and out as images in a rippling pond.
She could hardly remember what India had just said. As she held her ground, barely able to
stand or even walk, India gave Irma her most menacing pose. In what looked like a karate movement
to her, she lifted one arm up and displayed two fingers, the other arm also
gradually rising, until she began making hocus-pocus movements with her hands
and mumbling gibberish under her breath.
For
a moment Irma found herself giggling uncontrollably but also growing
increasingly ill. Finally, as
India’s hands froze into a two-finger hex position, a reaction that must have
seemed causal to India began taking effect. A wave of nausea, triggered by Irma’s last gulp of beer,
followed the chemical explosion in her head and stomach, resulting in the
inevitable purge.
“You
uncouth pig!” she heard her shout. “You filthy little swine!”
At that point, the clean-up crew and several tenants peeking out their windows began to laugh. Given a temporary reprieve, Irma Fresco wiped her little mouth with her sleeve, bowed foolishly, and staggered slowly away.
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