Once upon a witching hour, old John Emburley stood upon a lonely bridge and contemplated the end. He had decided that life was a series of nothings – or if it was something then it less akin to a primrose dream than a spastic nightmare brought on by the harsh strobe lights of daily existence.
He had had double double of toil and trouble, and supped his full of misery and disappointment: his buffet table of wretchedness was crammed full of dashed hopes and desperate letdowns.
He stared at the murky waters beneath the bridge and decided the black depths looked decidedly more inviting than the horrors of a frustrated and frustrating existence. He felt like a depressed cockroach caught in a kitchen-light glare – he didn’t wish to move, in the hope that the slipper of fate would come crashing down upon him and put him out of his misery.
Years had gone by and when that giant slipper from the sky had failed to appear he decided to take matters into his own hand. – Hence the bridge and hence his desire for self-annihilation.
He screwed his courage to the sticking place and ignored the voices of doubt and indecision. Reason was working assiduously to bolster his flagging spirits; but unfortunately his spirits remained resolutely flagged.
Just at the moment he was about to leap he heard a cackle from behind him. He was aghast to see an old lady in the last throes of haggery (to coin a word). She was a hag to beat all hags – horrifying to the eye and disconcerting to the bowels. She was an affront to all things pleasant, with a constitution of death and decay.
There she stood, bedlam in her eyes and pandemonium in her smile. Each wrinkle on her atrophied face was a diabolic testament to her daily communion with Baal, and the carbuncle on her parched cheek was enough to put the fear of god into the most rock-ribbed atheist. Her nose was hooked like an albatross bill. Her hair was a cuckoo’s nest of black knots and dried curls. Her lips were thin, black, and lifeless; her skin pale and cadaverous; her hands bony and shrivelled. When she walked she shuffled painfully, like a deep-sea crustacean with a few legs missing.
“What’s the matter my good fellow?” she squawked like a black cormorant.
“My life is not worth living anymore,” Emburley replied, looking as dejected as ever.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she cooed eerily; sounding like a cauldron brewing in the distance.
“Oh what’s the point, what can an old hag like you do anyway?”
“Try me,” she cackled, “for I’m a witch and I may be able to help you.”
Emburley looked at the murky depths morosely and said, “Well, to start with, I lost my job.”
“Alakazam!” shrieked the witch, snapping her fingers, “you’ve got your job back.”
“And my wife left me,” continued Emburley.
“Alakazam,” shrieked the witch, snapping her fingers, “your wife is back at home.”
“And I’ve gambled away my car,” said Emburley.
“Alakazam!” shrieked the witch, snapping her fingers, “your car is back in your garage. All your troubles are now behind you!”
Emburly was in a bit of a daze as the old hag helped him get off the fence of the bridge. Could it be true? Could providence have finally seen fit to deal him such a fine hand? Could his troubles really be over?
“All this seems too good to be true,” mumbled Emburley, “What’s the catch?”
“You’re right,” replied the witch, “there is a catch: for my magic to work there is one thing you have to do.”
“What is it?” Emburley inquired, filled with trepidation.
“You have to make mad passionate love to me, tonight right away,” purred the old sow.
Emburley took another look at the putrid face and septic body that was before him. He weighed his options and ruefully decided to follow the hag to her flat.
That night he had to stop himself on nine separate occasions from having to regurgitate the contents of his breakfast. Every fibre in his body cringed in repugnance at the odiousness of having to make love to this creature. His skin crawled, his hair stood on end, his head spun, and the hammer of revulsion kept pounding onto the anvil of decency.
At last it was done. Emburley was spent and exhausted. He lay prostrate with a vacuous look in his eyes. All he could think of now that the terrible deed was done was that he could have his life back and things would be happy.
“Can I go now?” he inquired.
“Yes you may go,” replied the malodorous hag, lighting a cigarette.
“And I’ll have my job, wife and car back?”
“How old are you?” she quizzed, blowing smoke rings into the air.
“Forty seven,” replied Emburley.
“You’re forty seven, and you still believe in witches?”
