The Witching Hour

I studied the array of tools scattered across the workbench. A smile crept its way onto my face. 

A cool breeze ran through my body, only hinting at the coldness outside the rickety and dank shack where I now stood. 

A thin beam of orange light shone softly on the frosted glass pane. Then, a flicker. It was doing it again. Ever unreliable was the lamp across from the window. It flickered once more before I reached for the latch. I pulled the window slowly to a close in order to avoid the shrieking creaks and squeals of the worn out hinges. I had no desire to wake anyone.

I breathed out slowly. My warm breath curdled and quivered as it collided with the chilly night air. I watched it wisp away into nothingness.

Whoosh! Crack! Snap!

I listened to the nocturnal activities happening around me and wondered if anyone else would be working this late. Why would they? It was cold, damp and particularly windy tonight; everyone would be tucked up cosily in the warmth of their own homes. All except me and my... work. But this wasn't regular work.

A whistling gush of wind passed by before the rumbling of a distant thunder began. Then came the pitter-patter of raindrops splashing lightly as they hit the roof. A tinkling noise started as the wind brushed the rain up against the window.

It was going to be a long night.

Faintly, I heard a ringing. The bell in the clock tower sounded on the hour; ding, ding, ding. One, two, three... I stopped counting as my attention veered away from the outside world and back towards my task.

I took a last glance outside for any prying eyes then faced my victims. They would be the first of many. They had been thrown in a pile with no dignity or care. I didn't care. Why should I?

Some had fallen and where now scattered amongst boxes, sacks and other junk I stored here.

My footsteps thudded on the weak wooden floorboards. I crouched down painfully to examine them all, making sure to poke and prod any I was unsure of. Lying beneath a rather ugly and battered victim, I finally decided on my first of the night.

Being rather heavy, I rolled, pushed, kicked and cursed my way over to the workbench before placing her on top; with great difficulty.

I could finally begin.

Picking up my favourite knife, I pierced it firmly through the rigid skin.

I carved a circular hole in which to enter the body then lifted it off to reveal the glorious innards just waiting to be used properly. I scooped. I scraped. I filleted that son of a bitch.

My hands were covered. They squelched once more as I dug into the stringy contents and pulled out everything. Eventually, I stood staring at the empty sack of flesh lying on my table, then I glanced at the hacked out insides of my first victim which now sat glumly in a bucket. I could use those later.

It felt good. But I wasn't finished. Not by a long shot.

I peered at her expressionless face through my narrowed eyes whilst I thought of a fitting design. Then I decided.

Choosing instead a serrated blade this time, I stabbed the knife into her lifeless front. I sliced it downwards, horizontally, diagonally, vertically and every which way I could. I slashed the poor thing until I could slash no more.

I made sure to inscribe my signature design before discarding the hacked off pieces.

I sighed. For this one, my work was done.

I stepped backwards and surveyed the job. My handiwork still impressed me. I'm sure it would impress others too, whether my art was scary or not.

This was the year. The year I would fulfil my dream. No one could stop me. I had the skill, determination and resources. Now was the time.

I lit a candle in honour of the deceased then placed it carefully inside her body.

The abstract face of Bellatrix Lestrange glowed a bright orange.

This pumpkin was ready for Halloween.

My "witching" hour was over.