The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Game
by Rie Sheridan Rose
Margo said it was a game. She asked if I wanted to play, and I was so bored—and lonely, frankly—that I swept aside my better judgment and said yes.
I’d heard rumors…that Margo wasn’t quite normal, that the crowd she hung out with were downright bitches…though some spelled that with a W. I didn’t care. I hadn’t made a single friend since we moved to Lamesville, and I was willing to give her crew a shot.
We all piled into Margo’s Tesla—Daddy loved his little girl—and drove around in circles until I was thoroughly lost. I couldn’t possibly find my way home, and I guess that was the point. Seven of us had squeezed into the Model S, and my concentration was on not getting suffocated by Valerie Neusbaum’s chest as she practically sat on my lap. So I really wasn’t paying attention to the route either.
When the car finally came to a stop, we were in the middle of the woods on the east side of town. This area hadn’t been hit with the development boom yet, and the foggy night was lit only by the pale light of a waxing moon. It was cold and damp, and I wished I’d worn a sweater as I shivered in my sleeveless top.
A second car pulled up and disgorged another half-dozen or so girls.
“It’s about time you showed up,” Margo growled.
“Excuuuuse me,” retorted Carol Dickerson. “I had to stop for supplies. You used all the eye of newt last month.”
Eye of newt? What were these ditzes playing at? Pretending to be witches?
“Oh, there’s nothing pretend about it,” Margo purred, turning to me—her eyes gleamed even in the darkness. “We are witches. Tonight we are here to play our favorite game.”
“Look—I don’t really feel so good. Can you take me home?” I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. My mother always made me promise not to get involved in the ways of witches.
“But you are the guest of honor, Trixie. We need you.” Margo nodded sharply and two of her minions grabbed my arms and pulled me out to the middle of the road.
I struggled as hard as I could, but they were stronger than I was. I could see Margo in the glow cast by the Tesla’s headlights. She had her head cocked to one side, as if gauging my suitability—or position.
When they had me in the dead center of the road, she started to murmur strange words in a language I didn’t recognize. They were too soft for me to grasp any meaning.
Suddenly, the asphalt beneath my feet began to…melt. It was like standing in a pool of viscous water. I was sinking!
Panic filled me. The tarry substance was crawling up my legs. Screaming would do no good—we were out in the middle of nowhere.
The clammy slime was now at my waist. I closed my eyes.
“Reversi,” I whispered.
The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the Tesla—and Margo was up to her chest in the middle of the road.
“What have you done?” she shrieked.
“What’s the matter, Margo?” I brushed an errant glob of tar off the front of my shirt. “This was your idea, after all.”
“Get back here!”
I turned and walked away. I was sure I could find a way home somehow. Maybe that car that was currently barreling down the road toward Margo.
Mama would be mad at me for getting swept up in the business of another coven, but this time it wasn’t exactly my fault. I had just wanted to make some friends…
I glanced back over my shoulder. The headlights of the oncoming car made a halo of radiance around Margo. She almost looked angelic for a moment there.
I looked forward again as the other witchlings finally noticed the imminent danger and began making a terrible racket.
I shook my head with a sigh. Yeah, this really just wasn’t my kind of game at all.
The sound of screeching tires filled the night. I smiled to myself.
Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:
Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry
Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…
…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.
Available on Amazon!
Alina Măciucă enjoys reading, writing, buying odd trinkets, and taking photos of beautifully decaying buildings. She has formally studied religion and hermeneutics at the University of Bucharest, and really has a thing for the Greco-Roman mysteries and Gnosticism, as well as for Renaissance magic. She lives in Bucharest with her very supportive boyfriend, their two cats, and an ever-expanding vinyl and book collection.
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