Friday, January 27, 2012


Excerpt of “The Witchfinder” from DARKTOWNE…

It was dawn, just past when the blackness of night begins to creep away. The Witchfinder was sleeping inside the door of an abandoned building, dreaming of killing bitches and burning and hanging witches. Those purveyors of horrid evil and unspeakable sundry acts screamed and howled as he strung them up, took torches to them, or pressed them beneath boulders. Ridding the world of such sundry vermin was his mission.

Of course, there were those occasional evil young witch-babes pleasing to the beady eyes of the infamous Bitch-Killer. Those young sweet witch-babes of evil intent were not put to the rack, thumb screws, iron maidens, wheels, or hanging cages before the rope, torch, or stone claimed them. No no. When it came to the evil young witch-babes, the Witchfinder had his own highly devious and effective ways to illicit information and confessions. Most prominent was the Witchfinder’s pole. His personal pole. They huffed and puffed and squealed. Mostly with delight.

Such had been the case with one special evil young spell casting storm raising witch-babe. Now long dead, neck stretched, an oak tree ornament, in her time she had been one fine huffing and puffing and squealing witch-babe. Many a day and night had the Witchfinder dreamed of her. As he was on this fine graying morning of death and terror…

Ah ohhhhhh, ahhhh, the dream witch-babe squealed and huffed and puffed.

Naked, sweaty, beady eyes wide and glassy, the Witchfinder was rockin the evil little witch-babe’s world. Who’s yur daddy, witch-babe!? he shouted. Who’s yur daddy!?

You, Chadwick, she called out. Chadwick Corey. Chadwick Corey… Chadwick…Chadwick…Chadwick…

The name echoed through the predawn air, and through the Witchfinder’s dream of poling that special spell casting storm raising evil young witch-babe. He shook his head, and then shook his other head, whisking away the last vestiges of sleep. Still, his name echoed through the predawn air.

Chadwick…Chadwick…Chadwick Corey…Chadwick…

His beady eyes, still glassy from a night of solitary exertion, shot open wide. With a gasp of stale air, the Witchfinder sat bolt upright and peered about the gloom. Still the voice came.

“…Corey…Chadwick Corey,” it was saying. “Chadwick Corey.”

Then he cackled softly. It was the old woman. The one that had led him to Tamsin Blight, the former Grande High Toad-Witch of Smokey Hollow.

“Chadwick Corey,” it came, “we’re waiting for you.”

She was outside the abandoned building. Out in the street. The Witchfinder ignored his clothing, his long frock coat, his wide brimmed black hat, and stepped through the doorway, naked and staring. Across the street stood the bent old woman. She wasn’t alone. Flanking the old crone were four abominations of the dead.

“Pray tell, what manner of abomination is this?” the naked Witchfinder crowed from across the street.

“Only the dead,” the old woman cackled softly.

“Mind your words, old woman,” the Witchfinder warned. “I am the instrument of God…”

“I am the instrument of Death,” the old woman interrupted. Her pink eyes flashed.

** ** **

From H Harksen Productions and available through

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