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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Comedy · #2287685
One unlucky man finds himself trapped in the attic of a witch coven with no easy way out.
         I don't know how I ended up here. Well, I do know, but it's a long story and I don't have much time to tell it. Let's just say I have a strong sense of justice, and a poor sense of judgement, and that tends to get me into a lot of awkward situations. None, however, have been so awkward as being trapped in the attic of a coven of witches who have a mean habit of kidnapping people from my village and making them into pies.
         I don't want to be pie, which means I need to act fast. Think Paris, think!
         They're going to want to kill me, there's no doubt about that. They wouldn't risk me exposing their operation. And considering the scale of said operation, I think they have the means to kill me a dozen times over, maybe two. So, fighting is off the table.
         Whatever they're cooking smells delicious. They seem to be eating vegetarian tonight - the aroma is all herbs and vegetables. Onion, carrots, celery. It must be some kind of stew. Is that thyme? I could use some 'time' myself. Don't laugh, Paris. This is not the time. Haha. Time.
         Escape would be difficult, that's for sure. The hole in the roof is at least twice my height above me, so I'd have to move a lot of junk to climb up. Plus, the roof can barely hold my weight - hence the hole. If I make any noise, be it through scraping furniture or my tumbling, broken body, they will surely investigate the ruckus, which leads to a fight. I was lucky enough to have the old mattress underneath me to soften my fall, but landing on it again is not guaranteed.
         I can hear them talking downstairs. Not enough to hear which words, but they're definitely words. They speak in hushed tones punctuated with shrill laughter that cuts through the walls like a cold breeze. They seem like they're having a good time. Really, it's not much different from the yuletide feast, where all the women in the family get wine-drunk in the kitchen while the men have raucous debates about who could catch the biggest fish or whatever. It's the same, just without the men. It would be kind of beautiful if it wasn't for all the murder. Maybe the witches have something figured out.
         We have some common ground, it seems. They have each other and I have uh, friends. I'd call them my friends. Diplomacy has never been my strongest suit - people don't always appreciate my sense of humour. They say I'm always making jokes at inappropriate times. What do they know? These witches seem like they enjoy a good laugh. Maybe we'll get along.
         If they come up here, I could run past them. They wouldn't be expecting some hapless villager to bum rush them like that. They'd expect me to be cowering in the corner, or hiding behind a cabinet. No, I'll crash into one of them with my hip, get them on the ground. Then I run as fast as I can down the stairs to the door. Maybe I'll snatch a broomstick on my way out, make the way home a bit easier. I'd keep a flying broomstick next to the door, if I had one.
         What am I talking about? Bum rush the magical, murderous, man-eating crones? There's at least three of them, and it would only take one to reach out a bony hand to catch me. They would dig their long black fingernails into my skin and laugh their shrieking laughs. "Look at me, I'm all dirty. I'll taste disgusting!" I'll complain. "I'm too poor to afford candies. I'll be just as nasty as cabbage soup. You might as well let me go."
         And they'll say, "my what a fine young man we have here! His bones will go well for our supper!" Then they'd chop me up and put me in their delicious-smelling stew. "Whoever gets an eyeball is their bowl gets to go first in Parcheesi!"
         That's it. I'm trying the roof. I know where the support beams are now, so I can stick to those. If I fall, I'll aim to fall head-first so maybe I'll be unconscious while they butcher me. One can only hope.
         This cabinet here looks like a good start. It's solid, hard wood. I could use something like this in my cottage, actually. It needs some lacquer, but still, what a waste of fine craftsmanship to let it collect dust like this. If I make it out of here alive, I'll get a cabinet like this and fill it with enough dishes for all the friends I have to come over and celebrate my survival with a feast. I'll make stew.
         Oh good gravy that's heavy. It doesn't help that my belly is rumbling from the all encompassing aroma. I was wrong about the vegetarianism by the way - they've added some kind of meat. I've decided that it's pork. I simply can't handle the mental ramifications of the alternative at the present moment. Either way, these ladies know what they're doing.
         Okay, I can do this. On the count of three: one, two, and-
         Oh no.
         That was loud. That was the loudest noise I've ever heard. I've heard thunder quieter than this cabinet. Why did I think the heaviest piece of furniture in the world wouldn't make a sound as I dragged it across a wooden floor? My poor judgement really got the better of me this time.
         They've stopped laughing. Any second now they'll be pulling out the ladder and making their way up here. They're licking their sharp teeth, grabbing their wicked knives and pointy forks.
         I'll just lean up against this cabinet. There we go.
         There's the ladder. I can hear it clunking against the trap door. Act natural, like I'm supposed to be here. Let's just slick my hair back with some spit. Show time.
         "Why, hello ladies! Can I just say you all look absolutely lovely today?

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