I remember mud and rotten pumpkins when I
awoke. The way the memories worked was always sort of strange. There was a
breath escaping dry lips, until it finally became a routine I was once
accustomed to, or was I? It was a windless night, and I vaguely remember a
hand, my hand, clawing its way out of the soil, the warm soil. There was a
moon, and autumn leaves blowing around, rustling, and with that the realisation
that I could hear, and soon, proper sight. From what I could tell, I lay with
my back against a large gnarled tree. Who was I? I believe I was a hoarder at
one point, and a therapeutic trasher the next. If I was awake, then it was that
time of year again. Halloween. All Hallow’s Eve. The Holy Witches Sabbat. I was
awake yet again for another night. They say you’re awake for the entire day,
which in fact is true, but half of the day, that is, the daylight, is spent
recuperating. The only reason I haven’t fallen apart yet is because magic had
the good sense to reattach some limbs, and brain activity, and a hunger for
brains. So you really only had the night to yourself. And upon the stroke of
midnight, it wasn’t like everything just came crashing down into nothingness.
No, you actually gradually devolved, always making your way back to the grave,
dropping a few things here and there on your way back, like a finger or two,
maybe an eyelid, but they also had their own way of dissolving back into the
ground, or rolling into the middle of a street to get squished by a car. So in
truth, there was always less of you every year. And I couldn’t remember how
long I had been alive for. Only that I was alive, right now, thanks to the
grace of the Witch Goddess. Not being able to feel anything other than an
insatiable hunger had its benefits. The way breath worked its way through your
body was comforting, calm, rhythmic. But soon the magic would have its way with
me again, and I’d be forced to go on my nightly prowl, occasionally spotting an
old friend or two down the lane. The magic started with a thought, in fact. It
was a command. And it wasn’t against your intentions. That’s the way it worked.
It made you want to do it. To feel like maybe you could actually make a
difference. Kill a few innocents. The times were long gone. They didn’t matter
anymore. When you’re dead, even to be found alive for half a day, you tend to
get all philosophical. And that was usually followed by boredom, when you
realised you actually wanted to do something, exercise what was left of your
muscles from the night before.
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