THE WITCH

   Synopsis: A hanging from Hell.

By: DeZ (dez31415@yahoo.com)

        On the morning of our execution, we are lead from the castle dungeons into the courtyard. After weeks of my cell’s feeble light, the brightness of the new day blinds me. I stop, blinking, on the threshold, but a guard shoves me forward and I stumble. I fall to the ground and spit blood, and yet I smile. Today, my Lord is coming for me!

       All the gallows birds are already here. They are gathered in a clump; some cry and hug each other, others stare sullenly into distance. I count them: there are twelve. Thirteen, if you include me...but including me in their number is a grave mistake. I am not like them, and our fates are separate.

       The condemned are very young; none over the age of twenty-one. These are the ones who still remain; the older women – their mothers, sisters, aunts – had been all hanged yesterday. I am older than any of these girls – as old as the most ancient crone who now swings in the town square – but no one would ever guess that. I look fresher than even the youngest of the twelve. My skin is white and unblemished; my red hair is shiny and luxurious; my waist is thin; and my breasts are full and ripe, not droopy with age. My face is beautiful despite my years. This is one of the rewards brought on by a loyal service to the Master.

       The thirteen of us had been convicted of being witches and sentenced to die by hanging. I look at these girls and laugh. Witches? Ha! Some of the poor dears were silly enough to imagine themselves dabblers in the Dark Art, but most were innocent even of these ridiculous pretensions. The witch hunters may believe these innocents to be witches, but I know better. I would recognize a true witch instantly – because I am one. Yes, I am the real deal, an honest-to-goodness servant of the Dark One. I signed my name in blood on a piece of parchment and handed over my soul. I invoked the Powers of Darkness many times. I mounted my broom and flew naked over sleeping villages; I gave myself away in shameless orgies and made bloody sacrifices to my Lord. A common Christian lady would die from fright if she saw even a small part of the sights I’ve seen.

       The witch hunters got lucky: it’s not easy to capture a true witch. Many of the witch hunters know it but it doesn’t stop them from convicting and executing thousands. Some of them are mad fanatics, they truly believe that every woman they get into their clutches is a real witch. Others are simply cynics, who know that almost none of their victims have anything to do with witchery, but who send women to gallows anyway because the Church and the King need regular displays of warm bodies dancing in the noose. They don’t care if they execute a hundred innocents, as long as there is a chance that one of them is a real witch.

     Not that these idiots know who I really am. I was betrayed; this was the only reason they managed to get their paws on me. But I am not afraid: my Lord gave me a solemn promise to save my life, and he keeps his promises.

       The guards load us into three carts; I ride in the second one. The town square is right outside the castle grounds, but the drivers take a roundabout path through the narrow side streets. They do it to give the crowd a chance to the jeer us up close. I note those who shout the loudest and memorize their faces. I will meet them later.

       At last, we enter the town square. The old gallows is on the right, and it is overfilled with corpses. The gallows holds forty or more of executed women, who are hanging at all heights, facing in every direction. The bodies are packed so close together that they nearly embrace. There is no space for us here, so they had to build another gallows just for the thirteen of us. The new gallows is across the square; it looks strong and spacious. Apparently, the authorities anticipate many more hanging in the future; but for now, there are only thirteen nooses.

       The girls are pushed off the carts and made to stand in a row. The order of execution is fixed; I am set to be the seventh to hang. I look at the middle noose – the seventh from both ends – and imagine what it would be like to feel coarse twine against the skin of my neck. Luckily, imagine is all I have to do, I have no plans for doing it in reality. I will be long gone before they touch me: My Lord will come and take me away from here.

       Before executions, there is ceremony. The King’s men announce the sentence; the priests conduct a prayer; the Archbishop gives a long sermon about the horrors of Hell. I wish they’d hurry up – the square is windy, and I am dressed only in a thin shift.

     At last, the formalities are over and the dying is about to begin. The Master Hangman approaches the first girl, who is a redhead like me. She is not a witch but she could be. The gingers often end up on the gallows because the witch hunters know that most witches have red hair, so if you execute a red-haired girl, chance are, you’ve killed a witch.

       The Hangman takes off the girl’s chains, and leads her to the ladder. He has a pointy halberd to convince the reluctant; but in this case, there is no need for that. The girl is too numb to resist. She meekly climbs the ladder and allows herself to be noosed by the Hangman’s assistant who is lying flat on the horizontal beam above. The boy is deft and very skillful in handling ropes and necks; soon, the first condemned is ready to go. The Magistrate gives the signal, and the Hangman takes away the ladder. The young redhead begins her dying dance.

       The crowd guffaws at her foibles, as she flails hither and thither. Not one of these good Christians sees her as a suffering human being; for them, she is a mere puppet on a string, made to twist and jerk with the sole purpose of providing them their rude entertainment. 

     The girl gives a spirited fight; her efforts are vigorous enough to make the gallows creak dangerously. But is no danger of collapse: these stout logs can easily hold the weight of three dozens of her. The Hangman is certainly not worried. He takes it easy, sitting on the ground under the hanged girl and looking straight up, as the redhead kicks her skirts far and wide. No one faults him or thinks him lewd; he is only asserting one of his kind's ancient privileges. The job of a Hangman is tough but it does have certain rewards.

     The girl slows down, then stops altogether. I watch her aura fade and disappear. Alone among the people here, I am able to see her soul leave the body. The old peasant superstition is true: a hanged woman’s soul does leave through the cunt.

    The Hangman loses no time; the next condemned is already being prepared. She is a pretty, raven-haired young woman; her dress, in rags now, shows signs of former wealth. They say she was a merchant’s daughter who refused a nobleman’s advances and for that was sentenced to hang with the common peasant girls and washing women. The dark-haired beauty gives something to the Hangman and assumes her place on the ladder. The Hangman nods at his assistant, who waves back and then twists the rope around the girl’s neck.

       The meaning of these maneuvers becomes clear when the ladder is kicked away. The girl must have tipped the Hangman to give the rope a lot of slack – instead of a short drop and the long dance, she plummets all the way down. She stops with a mighty jerk only inches from the ground. She is dead instantly; her lifeless body sways in a wide ark like a human pendulum. Deprived of a spectacle, the crowd hisses in disappointment; but the Hangman doesn’t care. His purse now jingles with many silver coins.

        Two are dead so far. So where is my Master? Why does he tarry? I look nervously around. But perhaps I shouldn’t worry so much: my Lord is known to love dramatic last-minute entrances. To calm down, I distract myself by observing the third hanging.

     The third girl is also a redhead. She is obviously too poor to afford a quick death, so this time the good townspeople won’t be cheated of a show. The condemned girl wails and thrashes in a most unseemly manner. In the process, she rips her bodice and flashes her nipples. She stops fighting momentarily to cover herself up like a proper maiden. The Hangman instantly takes advantage of this interruption; he grabs the girl and, throwing her over his shoulder, carries her up the ladder. I have to laugh: the girl seems to be of the type who considers death preferable to showing some skin. A minute latter, the prissy thrashes in the noose.

       They hang the next condemned girl without waiting for the previous one to expire. She is up very fast, and now there are two of them dancing high in the air. They look so pathetic! How could anyone have believed them to be witches? To be fair, a real witch wouldn’t look so dignified in their position, either. It’s hard to kill a witch, but hanging will certainly accomplish it – the witch hunters got that part right. A witch who is hanged by the neck cannot touch the ground that gives her strength. She cannot say her incantations because her throat is shut. She can live without air for a while but not forever. If you want to render a witch powerless and eventually dead, hanging her is a good way to do it.

       No one knows it more than we do. Hanging witches are a common sight at our orgies. Some of us get off from being helpless and vulnerable, and so they hang themselves, though not to the death as our Lord won’t allow it. They offer their bodies for use by their companions, who gather in knots around their hanging comrade. I’ve never participated in these diversions – I have no use for female bodies, hanged or otherwise. And as to the hanged males, I get to see plenty of these in the course of my duties.

     My duties are quite simple. I get to collect the hanged man’s seed, an important ingredient in our brews. Every time a man is hanged, be it a town square or a deep in the wilderness, I am lurking nearby, ready to pounce. But preying on murdered or executed is only one way of getting what I want. There is an even better way. My face is pretty and my body is shapely; so it is easy to find a young fool who would fall in love with me. At first, I lead him on and promise the fulfillment of all his desires. But when he thinks himself close, I betray him most foully and laugh in his face. The poor dupe, driven mad with despair, hangs himself. Then, as he swings in the noose, I appear at his side, to stroke his cock and squeeze his balls, and to gather his precious liquid into the palm of my hand…

       I lose myself in pleasant reminiscences of handsome men who killed themselves for the love of me. I fondly recall their lifeless bodies and their hard, juicy cocks that feel so good in my hands… Suddenly, I feel the business end of a halberd poking me between the ribs. Is it my turn already? I glance at the gallows and see six hanging bodies. Every girl in front of me had been already strung up. I am the next.

       Now would be a truly great time for my Lord to rescue me. I look around: there are no signs of him. No point in delaying, in buying myself more time. The Master knows exactly where each of his servants is and what she is doing; time and distance no obstacle to him. He will come when he will. I climb the ladder until they tell me to stop. A hand from above grabs my hair and pulls it up; I have no choice but to lift my head. A rope is quickly wrapped around my neck and tied behind my ear. I am safely noosed before I know what happened – the Hangman’s helper boy is very good at what he does.

       Standing high above everyone, I look down at the crowd. The many-headed beast stares back at me; I feel the attention of hundreds of people. Men gape at me, appreciating my beauty, while women envy it and console themselves with the thought of my impending doom. This is my moment! But I notice that many still pay attention to a girl next to me me, who twitches most distractedly. I know it’s silly, but I am annoyed at them and at her. Don't these worthless ruffians understand that I am infinitely more important? No, they are too dumb for that. Then I'll shows them! I'll tell them exactly who I am.

       "You fools!" I shriek into their faces. "You think you have caught yourself another harmless little cunt? You think you can simply hang me, together with all the trash?" I gesture at the six dead girls. "You think wrong! Know this: I am a witch! I am loyal to the Great Horned Master! My Lord will reward my faithful service – he will come and rescue me from the gallows! He will punish all those who want to do me harm! Watch me laugh at you: Ha! Ha! Ha!"

       The crowd listens tolerantly: they believe me utterly mad. But the Archbishop frowns, then whispers something to his flunkey, who nods and runs towards the Hangman.

       "My Lord is coming even now!" I yell, "He is here! Behold his terrible majesty!" This is not true: there is no sign of him. But my words have the desired effect: the more superstitious of the townspeople look around fearfully. The Archbishop’s flunkey speaks with the Hangman, pointing at his master. The Hangman shrugs and stands up. He walks in a slow trot toward me.

     "I am a witch," I shout at the top of my lungs, "A terrible witch! And by the power given to me by my Lord I curse you all to Hell!"

       At this precise moment, the Hangman reaches the ladder and yanks it from under my feet.

       My shout turns into a gurgle, which quickly dies in my throat. My feet instinctively try to reach a solid surface, but they find nothing save thin air. An iron vise grabs me by the neck and clamps hard. The pain! The pain! It’s diabolic! And I can’t breathe! The noose is strangling me; and if I am not rescued soon, slowly but surely it will strangle me to death.

       Has my Lord abandoned me?

       My eyes are open. I can see the world around me, even as this world is swinging and turning. Now I am finally the center of everyone’s attention. The people in the square gesture rudely toward me, aping my own actions. The men wave their hands in front of their chests to imitate my breasts jumping and swaying under my shift. The women screw their faces in a grimace of suffocation, and then break down laughing. My tongue falls out of my mouth, and so the children start showing me their tongues. The Hangman stands right under me, but he is not looking up. Instead, he bows to the crowd, accepting thanks for a good spectacle.

     Oh Master, where are you?

       He comes when I am about to lose hope. I feel the stench of sulfur and my heart lifts. He appears then before me in all his animal glory, invisible to mere human but very palpable to such as I. I feel his hot breath on my cheeks. Never was I so glad to see him. "Thank you, oh thank you my Lord!" I tell him silently, "Please take me away now!"

       He considers me thoughtfully, looking me over from head to toes. "Not so fast," he says. "There is a service that you have to perform for me."

       "Anything," I say.

     "You look good hanged," he purrs in that velvety voice of his. "You should’ve done it before. I waited for you to hang yourself at one of our orgies but you never obliged. At last, I have you just where I want you. There is just one thing that needs to be done." He swishes his claw across my chest, and my shift, cut into two pieces, falls to the ground. I hang naked.

       The crowd roars with delight. "Cover her! Cover her!" shout a few prudes, but their voices are drowned in the ensuing pandemonium. Whistles, catcalls, thunderous laughter erupt all over the place – the townspeople are beside themselves.

       "Mmm, lovely," my Lord whispers into my ear. He pinches my breasts and buttock, rubs his paw between my legs. I know what's coming next: my Master is not one for pretty talk and silly caresses. Nor am I mistaken: a few moments later, he opens my thighs and I feel his scaly, spiky cock drive itself inexorably into my cunt.

       Being fucked by the Lord is a great honor for any witch. Nonetheless, with great honor comes great pain. My neck is squeezed and stretched; my lungs burn; and yet, this is but a small discomfort compared to what I feel in my lower stomach. His cock is as big as a log, and my cunt is being mashed into a pulp. I am hanged and, at the same time, I am cruelly impaled.

       The crowd does not know this, for they cannot perceive my Master. All they see is a lone hanged woman convulsing rhythmically, with her legs spread wide and her cunt dripping pink liquid – a mixture of blood and love juices. Still, even though the people can see only half the action, they understand that something unusual is taking place. The crowd appears thoroughly fascinated. All eyes are on me; and a deep hush falls over the square.

       My supernatural lover grunts, as the tip of his cock explodes. My belly fills with black seed. Being inseminated by the Lord is an even greater honor. Now, when I die, I will give birth to a host of dark spirits. His cock withdraws, and I thank my Master for ending my ordeal. He looks to be in good spirits, so I feel emboldened to ask for my release.

       "Please Master," I beg, "Undo the noose! Rescue me from the gallows"

       He pierces me with his eerie, unblinking stare and then shakes his head as though I were a dim-witted child. "What made you think I’d do it?" he asks. "You fit well in noose. The gallows is exactly where you belong."

       "Oh, Master, Master! Didn’t I serve you well?" I wail wordlessly.

       He smirks at me. "Don’t take it too personally, darling. You’ve been a good servant. But you see, the witch hunters are my servants too, though not all of them know it. One witch hunter can be more useful than fifty witches. So from time to time, I like to throw these fellows a bone, a real witch to hang or burn. Now do you see your role? You are that bone, my dear. This is the service I wished you to perform for me, and you doing an admirable job." He gives be a burning kiss and turns to leave. "Enjoy the rest of your hanging, my darling, and I'll see you in Hell."

       "But you promised, you promised!" I plead. "You swore an oath that you’d keep me alive!"

     He pauses in half turn. "Ah yes. I swore an oath, didn’t I? Very well, then. Be alive!" And without saying another word, he vanishes in a cloud of acrid smoke.

       Now I am truly alone. Nothing changes in my position: I remain hanged just as before. My feet are still high above the ground and my neck still is constricted by the rope. There is only one difference: my neck is squeezed even more, because my Master’s brutal lovemaking made the knot so much tighter.

     I despair, thinking that my Lord had broken his pledge. Anguished tears run down my eyes. Then a horrible realization hits me. He did not break his promise; he kept it to a letter. He swore to keep me alive and so he did. But he did not promise to rescue me. He left me to strangle in the noose – to strangle forever and never die.

       My suffering keeps getting worse and there is no relief. I flounder in the air, making an attempt after a useless attempt to escape my torment. Exhausted, I hang limp; and then I begin my struggles anew. All that time, I am fully conscious. No sweet oblivion is waiting for me; I feel everything. I can feel every strained muscle in my neck, every shred of the ruptured lungs in my breast. My vision reddens as blood fills my eyes.

     No matter what tortures I go through, I remain alive. I lose track of my surroundings…there is only me and a Universe of pain. Every now and again, I surface from my isolation; in those moments, I glimpse the townspeople’s surprised faces watching me. Presently, I twist left and right and see six hanging corpses on one side of me, and six on the other. They didn’t wait for me to expire but decided to go on with the rest of the executions. By now, every condemned girl had been strung up. Each one did her dance; and now they were all dead. I wish I had the same quick exit.

       The crowd is disturbed; people mutter and point fingers at me. They wanted a show, and they got it; such a show that they would never forget. I am exhausted but there is nothing I can do. My body has to thrash and kick. My tongue is pushed so far out of my mouth; that I can see the whole length of it. The noose around my neck is so tight that now it hugs the bone. But death refuses to take me. My soul is rattling within my womb but it cannot escape – my cunt is plugged and closed. My Master made sure of that.

       Is there no help for me? Perhaps there is, but I am afraid to consider it. Still, the terrible agony leaves me no choice. Trembling like a leaf, I turn my thoughts heavenward. For the first time since I was a little girl, I begin to pray.

       "Sweet Jesus and all the saints," I plead, "Please give me death! You can cast me into Hell afterwards, but let me die!"

       Do I hear a faint echo of heavenly choir? Is it my imagination, or do I smell the aroma of roses and myrrh? Something touches my feet. It’s the Hangman – he grasps my ankles and pulls himself up. He holds on to my feet, riding me like a swing, applying his whole weight. The force that squeezes my neck more than doubles. The pain is dreadful; there are sparks before my eyes. I bite my tongue right through; blood pours down my chin. And yet I live. My Lord’s will is not easily broken.

       I feel the soles of the Assistant Hangman’s feet coming down the sides of my head. He lowers himself on top of me and stands on my shoulders. Now it is the weight of three people. The agony is unbearable. My neck is elongated beyond all possibility; and the blood streams not just from my mouth but also from my nose, eyes, and ears. I am a terrible sight to behold, but still I live.

     The Hangman tells something to his assistant. They count to three, and then they both jump. My body gives a great shudder; the pain fills me even to the tips of my fingers. I can hear the heavenly choir loud and clear. The Hangman and his boy jump again, and then yet again; and on the last try, the vertebrae in my neck separate – and I die.

    (August 2008)