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Billy got left behind when the others fled to 'Baby Philadelphia.' He was all alone in the Townhouse cellar with the ghost of the little boy who did not quite survive polio. Well not exactly all alone. I don't know if spirits count, but the born-witch, Pig Blood Annie does and boy was she angry. Every bit of glass was shattered. Even the granite counter tops in the kitchen cracked like The Tablets of The Law. The mouse family in the attic crumbled to dust, but they were still alive when their spines fractured.
She screamed like an army of hormonal banshees. Floors buckled. Walls came down and two hundred and fifty year old rafters that put railroad ties to shame splintered and fell. The inside of the house was gutted and cleaned like a chicken. The virago-born-witch hung from a beam that was once part of the attic floor. A thin, cheesy, putrid stream of shit escaped from her bowels.
Where the hell are they!? Where'd them assholes go?! - she railed ..... Billy hid under all the rubble, cut from shards of wood and choking from the dust and fecal matter. Water sprayed from the broken bones of showers, tubs and sinks. You've seen the like in old cartoons... BOOM!!! The double door refrigerator slid down what was left of the kitchen floor and jumped to its death, followed by the heavy, commercial grade stove (apparently they were lovers) and sundry other appliances that decided life wasn't worth living anymore. Billy trembled under what was left of the mudroom. Nothing heavy up there so he was OK, save for what came down from the bedrooms. But he was pinned against a wall, curled up and jammed into a space like a contortionist's trunk...After a bit the dust settled. The water leaking down helped that.
Then, a near silence..... just the water and the sound of creaking wood, as Pig Blood Annie swung back and forth up above.... All the books in the cozy, little library... gone... All the fine antiques... destroyed. God knows what happened to Little Annie's toys, Sarah's things and Jonathon's fine clothes. God knows what happened to his venerable, hand illuminated copy of La Ciencia Vampirismo, or his thousand year old journal.
Billy wondered - Why wasn't the fire department there? Where were the police, especially the paranormal unit? Will I ever straighten up and walk again? When will the bleeding stop? Will I live? Will I die?... He wanted to yell for help, but the born-witch was still there. Where? He didn't know, but he could smell her.
Then, there was one last crash, as she let go and plummeted down onto the rubble. He saw her gross form, clad only in a soaked, shit stained housedress, clamber to get up. She farted. She belched. She cursed.
Billy held his breath, praying she couldn't see him buried under all the wreckage. But she had other talents...
She snorted. She sneezed and in a low, sand-paper whisper said - I smell my dinner... Billy moaned. The born-witched chuckled. What was all that rubble to her, she, with her thick, beefy arms? Could she throw a hoo-doo and make it disappear?... Sure, but liftin' and throwin' was more fun. Made Billy groan and whine a little. Added some spice. She'd lift him up and bite the meat right off his ribs. Maybe suck his tongue out and rip that off too. Tongues is like appetizers.
Now it was mighty dark in that ruin, but he could see the gleam off that shit soaked dress plastered to her belly, as she cleared a path and moved in for the kill.
He closed his eyes and waited.
Then the ghost of the little boy who didn't quite survive polio whispered - Don't worry. I'm here...
<more next time>
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