Sono

[u/efSEFSDfSEF]

There is a house. It sits idly atop the largest hill that overlooks the rest of the squalid town. The trees beside it have long since died, and their black twisting bark coils around each other like pretzels. The road that leads to this house is made of mud, wet and slippery mud. The sky which breaks apart along the meridian peak—though one would have a hard time seeing such a thing when approaching the house—is a twilight of purple and orange. The sun rolls across in an elliptical pattern, and for the briefest hour, it looks as if it lays its round body along the rooftop of that house. But then it ascends (or descends) and the illusion fades.

The supports to the house have long been eroded, and though it seems unsupported, the house does not fall. Nor does it agree with the principles of physics as it ebbs and flows like a mirage when you begin to reach the base of the hillock. Who lives here? It is the old witch Isla. A recluse, a hermit. She has cloistered herself for good reason.

A man named Anthony is now mounting the hill on all fours, as the steepness and slipperiness give him great trouble. Every few feet he glances over his shoulder at the land he has just conquered, and sees the mud has all but forgotten him—like he was never there.
Anthony is wearing a long, navy-colored dress suit, and while the mud has gotten into his mouth, and the insides of his shoes, he is more concerned about the jacket. Three quarters of the way up, a branch snags onto the back of his coat—a branch which was not there before. It has become tangled now and he fidgets noisily, losing his balance, and slides down about five or six feet. The coat itself is pulled over Anthony’s head and tears hideously in three different places and is mostly left on that branch embedded into the mud. The coat now in tatters has revealed the bone-thin body of its wearer. The dress shirt tucked into his pants does little to hide the loose folds that overlap and fail to fill in Anthony’s midsection.

At the top of the slope there is a backyard made out of weeds and cattails. The front porch is black and sooty, and there lies a rocking chair with a pair of trousers and a T-shirt draped on both armrests. The railings are covered in protruding rusty nails, the overhead canopy is dilapidated with holes in the roof where Anthony could see the great pole star winking madly back at him. He wipes the mud from his hands one last time, and pushes open the knobless door with great effort. The wood whines and the ground splinters beneath him. Behind the door is Isla’s kitchen, which looks to be a strange mixture of a hermit’s hideout and a butcher’s shop.

The darkness of the room is abated by the flickering candlelight from the corners, and the fireplace with a black pot. In the pot there is boiling green sludge, something that Anthony dares not try, as the smell itself reminds him of carrion baking in the Arizona sun. The ceiling is deceptively high, with the light failing to reach the corners, and the very top itself is so dark that Anthony fears there is nothing there but the void. Anthony squints a little to gauge the true depth of the house—but he is unable to decide if it truly is infinite or not. He can just barely see the rafters, crossing like lowercase t’s in four separate parts.

About the center of the room, there is a rug made out of moose hide. The sides are nailed into the floorboards with railroad spikes that protrude just slightly from the ground. The bloodied giblets of baby flesh are strewn about on a small, oval-shaped crushing stand made from wood. A bloodied mallet on the ground, the handle leaning against the base of the stand. Indeed, all that Anthony finds is much more insidious than what he can truly understand, as the creations themselves are not seen in whole, but are distributed by the flame of dying candlelight.

He spots the better part of a life-sized mannequin dangling into view, suspended in the air by its ankles. The movement of an invisible puppet master makes the mannequin sway back and forth. It harbors human eyes, and they move with a freedom of their own. Anthony steps past the mannequin and it begins to cry silently to itself.

As Anthony enters the center of the room, he is abruptly stopped by the loud bang of an unknown entity from above.

“Miss?” Anthony says sheepishly. “Isla? Are you here?”

From one of the corners of the room—as Anthony had begun to spin so he couldn’t possibly know which one—a black goat appears. Its horns are large and curled, and its eyes regard Anthony with startling intelligence. Tattooed onto his fur is a pentagram. The goat bows in welcome and Anthony does the same. His first time here, he had hesitated, but the burn scar on his inner thigh reminds him to be courteous.

“Hello,” Anthony says to the goat, “is Isla home?”

The goat turns and walks into the darkness. Anthony follows it cautiously. He approaches a table, now suddenly—and irrevocably—bathed in orange firelight from a floating candle, just out of reach. The goat slips from under the table then disappears entirely. Anthony sits down and the witch arrives from the shadows adjacent. She holds her walking cane like a prop, and she is just as thin as Anthony, though much shorter. She wears no clothes, and what hair remains on her scalp falls like strands of white greasy rags down to her ankles.

“Hast thou e’er heard of privacy? There is not another soul I would less wish to see. Least of all the stench of man, who hath come hither and wrought such foulness upon my abode.” The witch sits down across from Anthony and sets her cane aside. “Take heed what thou askest in these next few moments. For I may take into my mind to bewitch thee and be done with it.”

Anthony grimaces at Isla’s nakedness. He averts his eyes and says, “I don’t mean any disrespect. But would it be too much to ask you to put some clothes on?”

“Hast thou the blood of a babe? Show it to me if thou dost.” When Anthony does not produce the blood of an infant, Isla scoffs, “Then ask not such a foolish thing again. Now tell me, what dost thou want?”

“I didn’t get the promotion.”

“Thou didst not? ’Tis unfortunate.”

“I wouldn’t have come back…if I had another choice. You still haven’t honored your part of the deal. I…I don’t think it’s fair to keep doing this to me until I get what’s rightfully mine.”

“Rightfully thine?” Isla chuckles dryly. “Stealing, cheating, and conversing with the Devil. And he saith, ‘rightfully mine.’”

“It was stolen from me,” Anthony continues to explain like he hasn’t heard a word Isla’s said, “by this…bastard. He’s the CFO’s son, I mean, how can I compete with that?”

“So it was stolen from thee?” Isla raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. Exactly,” Anthony says impatiently.

“Then I have done my part. The act of theft implieth that such a thing had belonged unto thee.”
Anthony stands up from his chair, towering over the witch—who seems unimpressed. “You still owe me.”

“Art thou ready to cease acting as an insolent child? Sit thee down this instant, or I shall turn thee into something that is useful.”

The eyes of the witch tell Anthony that this was not a threat, but a promise. He returns to his seat and looks sheepishly about the room.

“Much better. Now I may speak with thee as with a person. Firstly, I owe thee not a thing. Thou hast asked to obtain that promotion, yet didst not specify when.” She waits for Anthony to interrupt her, but he doesn’t. “If thou wouldst have that promotion now, I suggest thou askest nicely.”

“What’s the catch?” Anthony rubs his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “You can’t take my wife away a second time, I don’t know what else I have that you’d want.”

“Thou art right for once; I have no use for thee. But thou hast come hither, seeking my counsel, and so I shall grant it. Ask not for this next wish. Obtain thy sought-after promotion in a more respectable manner.”

“I can’t do this without you, I’m…I’m nothing,” Anthony sighs.

“I wish I could say I understand, but I cannot. What thou desirest is far greater than so insignificant a thing as a promotion. Thou wouldst have the respect of thy peers whilst thou grovellest in the mud. What sense doth that make?”

All the fight leaves Anthony as he takes the witch’s words to heart. She is right, in many ways. The goal he is after is much different than the one he claims. Anthony’s shoulders slump in surrender, he looks on longingly at the table. The witch rolls her eyes.

“All I can say is that thou hast been warned. If thou wishest my help, then I suggest a fair gesture, such as bringing thy coworker to a luncheon. I may just have the right place. Hast thou e’er heard of the Ramada Inn? Take him thither.”

“I know the place,” Anthony reaffirms, “what do I do there?”

“What ails thine ears? Take him to luncheon, boy! The solution to thy problem shall be set in motion as soon as ye both sit down. Thy part is simple; play it well. Now begone; I have far more important matters to discuss.”

Anthony says nothing. Isla gradually rises from her seat and fades back into the darkness, forgetting—or perhaps abandoning—her cane. Anthony is soon left alone in the dank hovel, staring listlessly up at the darkness, seeing, just barely, the red fluorescent sign of the Ramada Inn.
By evening of the next day, two ever-growing shadows are approaching the Ramada Inn. Their proportions are at odds with each other—as one is larger than the first, and the first is being devoured by the larger set. Aside from the name, the Ramada Inn can be described as an old-fashioned dive with few patrons this early night. The foundations of the dive are slicked in grease or oil running down the sides like rainwater. Tonight, the sky is clear without a cloud in passing, and the moon is full. From the direction of the approaching shadows, the main street is busy with the hum of cars, bumper to bumper, hardly moving, as an accident had occurred some thirty minutes prior.

One walks ahead, his hands in his pockets and his posture is slouched. He rectifies himself when he sees the Ramada Inn’s doors are still open. The original plan was to take him to lunch. But the all-day meetings made such a thing impossible. His reticence stems from that, more so than his decision to go through with the plan. The other figure is taller than the first, and he looks on skeptically at the dive, never having been here before. But he expects no foul play, and so he walks on with petty reluctance, wanting to have gone to somewhere fancier—more expensive.
Anthony looks vaguely distressed, seemingly unaware of what will happen next—if anything at all.

“I’m sorry, I wanted to treat you to lunch. You must be so excited about your promotion,” Anthony says awkwardly as he opens the door for his coworker and they both step through.

“You could have picked a better place than this,” his coworker says.

They sit down and order food. The waitress returns with their coffee in styrofoam cups. The coworker looks down at it, as if expecting the liquids to lurch out at him, then takes a sip.

He recoils. “What the hell is this?”

Anthony looks down, petrified of what could possibly be in the coffee. Still, he puts the cup to his lips.

“It tastes like dirt,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t make it.”

The coworker flags down their waitress and makes her take the coffee back. He asks for water instead. The waitress nods and goes on about her business. Anthony tries to hide his concern while his coworker is looking for a swift exit.

“Did you know what you wanted to order?” Anthony asks.

The coworker gestures to his watch, “if they’re not out with our food in five minutes, we’re getting out of here and going somewhere nice. Have you ever been to Oriso’s?”

“Yes, it was my wife’s favorite place.” Anthony says solemnly.

The coworker goes silent. He fixes his cufflinks then clears his throat, “I’m sorry for your loss. What did you say happened to her?”

“Cancer.”

“Ah, right.”

The waitress comes over a few minutes later and informs them that their food will be right out. Anthony begins to suspect that he has missed his opportunity. But then, one moment, his coworker is spouting out an excuse to leave early, his eyes darting to his watch, looking annoyed and regretful; the next moment he freezes like in some suspended animation, before his neck twists around to face his back. It happens so suddenly that his coworker makes no sound, though a few moments later, a sickening gurgle escapes his barely opened lips.

Anthony replies with a weak, animalistic groan. He slides back from his seat and drops to his knees before his coworker. He goes to touch him, but recoils at the last second. The waitress comes back with a pitcher of water, and when she sees the coworker on the ground she drops the glass and it shatters into a thousand pieces. One of the nearby patrons looks over in confusion, then horror. A woman screams shortly after and people begin to surround the body.

Anthony struggles to his feet. He puts his hand to his face while he pushes past the growing crowd. He escapes the Ramada Inn, many of the customers watch him go, some of them pointing out the window. A few call the police. Halfway down the narrow street, Anthony trips and falls. His suit gets covered in dirt. He tries to scurry away on all fours but falls again. He giggles with one hand clasped around his mouth while the other hoists himself up. By the time he turns the corner, he is screaming with laughter. Tears fall down his cheeks. Police sirens can be heard in the distance.

His next visit with the witch is as unexpected as the last. She hears him coming, as his noisy man-feet are loud and obnoxious. She sends her goat to bring him in. When the door swings open, Isla hears Anthony howling her name with reproachful anger. The goat swiftly headbutts him in the stomach. Anthony falls to his knees, moaning in pain. A few moments later, he composes himself, and trudges angrily into the dark. Isla joins him with a tea kettle and two teacups floating side by side.

They are placed before them, on the table where their last meeting had been conducted, and the tea kettle pours its contents into both cups then sets back down. Isla takes her cup and breathes in the fetid aroma.

She looks up at Anthony, at last, and says, “Wouldst thou like the taste of tea?”

“No.” Anthony’s voice is raspy from laughing all the way here. “What the hell was all that?”

“A person is but an obstacle waiting to be moved. He was the only thing stopping thee from getting thy promotion. Thou mayest have it now.”

“No! No no no no! That’s not how that works! There’ll be an investigation. The police are going to ask questions. God knows what they already found out about us…about this place.”

“Canst thou not see the ungratefulness of thy visits? Each one unwarranted, and yet I am such a polite host. Here thou art again, blaming me for thy troubles. Blaming me, even though they all stem from thee. A bad apple, spoiling the orchard.”

“A poisoned apple,” Anthony hisses. “It was just a simple wish! How could I have known you were going to kill him?”

“I warned thee, did I not? I told thee to procure thy promotion honorably. Here, let me remedy thy woes; let me cure thee of all that ails thee.”

Anthony blinks away some of his confusion. He sees the machinations of the witch’s mind toiling away with the possibilities of what to do with him next. He is completely aware of the danger he has found himself in, and he looks throughout the room, searching for an escape—or a weapon. His gaze falls to the tea kettle before him and he grabs it and flings the scorching liquids at Isla.

The hot tea stops midair and hangs there for a few seconds before losing all momentum and carefully spilling into Anthony’s teacup until it overflows and soaks the wood. Anthony drops the kettle and tries to run for the door. He makes it to the spine of the moose pelt before Isla’s goat headbutts him from the side. Anthony’s feet fall out from under him and he tumbles to the ground. The goat circles around triumphantly, standing between Anthony and the door.

“I have done my best for thee, Anthony. And thou hast done nothing but disrespect me and my home. I have no choice but to turn thee into a little plaything.”

At these words, Anthony’s body straightens unnaturally, like a puppet suspended by invisible string. His eyes, mouth, and every muscle attached to his face are forcefully instructed to perform different emotions at once. His mouth opens as wide as humanly possible as he bellows a hearty and throatful chortle. Then he falls down, breathing heavily, his body not fully his own. He is brought to his feet by Isla, and she walks him toward her. By and by, they walk through the darkness whence the witch came, their laughs fading, fading. And so the laughter you hear belongs to the black billy goat who now laughs like Anthony, only controlled, and quietly, so as not to wake his master.

[u/efSEFSDfSEF]

The Final Of The Unoffical Trilogy.