The hour has finally arrived. I tremble in the darkness, my thumb raking the grooves of the lighter as I drag it down. The flint sparks and the light of life is born from death. The wick catches fire and I am bathed in its glow. My heart crashes against my breast as I glance at the clock: 1am.
Even though my haggard breaths thump around my brain, still the snorts of the warthog crash into my coven. He has grunted and panted and broken wind in my home for thirty years but now the end is in sight. I hear him flop over on the bed, his fat hairy belly slapping against the mattress and there’s a brief reprieve when all is still. I hold my breath. Could this be my salvation? A few seconds before doomsday? A guttural grunt explodes through the ceiling and my eardrums burst. I almost knock over the candle as I cover my head to muffle the torment. His time is up. The Witching Hour is here.
This plan has taken months to devise. Many prison cells are filled with those too stupid to organize it properly. Caught with a bloody knife in their hands or a bottle of poison tucked in their purse. To be truly free I have to be smart. And for such a dark event to unfold, I had to turn to the dark side.
Feigning illness, I told the pig I needed alternative medicine and would be gone all morning. He just snorted and switched the channel. I wore a black hat with sunglasses and a scarf and drove to the back alleys of the city.
The shop appeared to be vacant, its grotty façade sticky with mildew and grime, yet the sign read Open. I glanced around but only a hobo with a brown paper bag glued to his lips lay nearby. With the snores of the warthog rattling around my skull, I stepped inside.
The light from the sun vanished in the gloom. I blinked six times before I could make out a shape a few inches from my face. My jaw swung open as the polished skull of a small animal hanging from the rafters clattered against some pan pipes. The ghostly orchestra rang out to introduce a murky medley of deceased stuffed rodents all with crimson beaded eyes. Framed pictures of famous Wicca adorned the mottled walls with the bald furrowed brow of Alistair Crowley bearing from a book on the shelves. A flickering black candle beckoned me not to retreat so I stepped over a taxidermist’s nightmare and approached the counter.
The twisted forms of the Lovers merged with the High Priestess and The Magician as I stopped by the deck of Tarot cards. They say they hold the future. I lifted the next card from the deck and flopped it down. Death’s scythe jutted over the snout of The Pig. My hand shot to my mouth just as a voice echoed from the darkness.
“You seek the Witching Hour.”
I squinted to the rear of the shop but the light of the candle did not reach the speaker. I pulled my scarf to cover my lips.
“How..how did you know?”
The voice did not respond at first. My shadow flitted over the counter-top as my heavy breathing caught the flickering flame. Then the voice spoke from the dark recesses.
“The Witching Hour comes once a century when Hallow’s Evening aligns with the turn of time. As the clocks reverse, one hour is allotted for man to make might and mischief. Or a woman.”
My Googling said the same thing. One day in a hundred years, when the clocks revert to Greenwich Mean Time and collide with Halloween, that hour becomes forgotten in the annals of history. Anything that happens can never be remembered or recovered. The perfect time to slaughter a warthog.
“But is it real?” I ask.
The glint of a grotty smile flashed. “As real as time itself,” the voice replied. “Light counts down the seconds but to ensure success a measure must be taken.”
“I have a clock in the living room,” I said.
A skeletal hand shot out of the dark. Its gnarled, bony fingers seized my wrist, its claws almost piercing my skin.
“A clock does not give the light of life and time much less snatch it away. Take the candle and go. Do your deed but be warned; once snuffed out, time can never be reborn.”
The clawed hand disappeared and the voice became silent. I stared at the candle, the only one on display. The hours of burning black wax had stumped it to an inch. I asked how much but the voice was gone. Taking some money from my purse, I exchanged it for the candle on its holder, careful to keep its flame steady as I made my way outside. Only when I left did I blow it out.
The Witching Hour has arrived and as the candle burns, I pray. I pray to all the ghoulish saints and devils. I pray to the fallen one below. I pray to Death itself that the snorting warthog would choke on his own fat tongue or his bulbous heart would explode in his chest. As the wax drips onto the table my thoughts turn to the next hour. After the ambulance arrives to eject the body I must be careful. To keep up appearances there needs to be a show of grief. Luckily my wardrobe has been dark as of late. The mourners will come with their pies and flowers and I will shed crocodile tears. Then I will lie in my own bed for once and have a full night of sleep. Thirty years of hawking and spitting and spluttering all gone in an hour. Peace at last. I will have all the time in the world then. Free to travel, free to love, free to be free again.
The candle has burned to a stub. Its wick hangs onto life until finally, it succumbs. Death unfurls around me. I hold my breath again and listen. Nothing. No noise. I wait for one full minute, counting every second in a Mississippi. Silence.
I struggle off my knees and make my way to the hall. My slippers softly slip onto each step but there are no heavy grunts. The door to our bedroom lies ajar. I wet my lips and push it inwards. The portly pig beneath the duvet lies still. I tiptoe closer. No noise only beautiful silence. I stand over him now, his sweaty forehead taut and still. My lips dry instantly and I lick them as I bend low.
“Percy? Are you alive?”
Dead men don’t speak. My heart cartwheels within me. It worked. The Witching Hour actually worked! I must compose myself. Should I call for the medics now or wait until the fat lump is cold? My face is an inch away from his. I want to laugh out loud. Thirty years of torment gone within an hour.
Aafurrrnngghhh! Fwwwppphh!
My husband’s putrid breath bellows into my mouth as he expels wind from both ends of his body. The smell knocks me reeling and I fall back against the radiator. The noise wakes him up.
“Geraldine? What are you doing on the floor, you stupid woman? Get back into bed. Don’t you know we get an extra hour to lie in today?”
Saliva spits from his mouth and dribbles down his chin as he scorns me then turns the other way to expose his arse through the gap in the covers.
I sit there stunned. Witching Hour, I think. What a crock of…