#halloween2023countdown 🎃 Short Story: She's My Witch by Paul D. Brazill
Supernatural Noir. The Neon Boneyard.
SHE’S MY WITCH
         Friday was just a dull throb. Saturday ached and nagged like a rotten tooth. But Sunday was bone-crunching agony. The rest of the days and nights were soldered tightly shut until my fever finally erupted.
         My burning eyes ripped open.
         I was strapped to a stinking bed in the back room of Duffy’s Bar, the sleaziest dive in The City – no mean feat when you’re talking about that neon-soaked, blood-spattered hellhole that I called home. The freezing cold room was lit muddy brown. The wisps of a Kip Tyler song drifted in from the bar. The dirty twang of the guitar reverberated through my bones. I started to laugh when I recalled the title but the pain, like the kick in the eye from a stiletto heel, sharply turned everything black.
         Cherchez la femme fatale, of course.
         ***
         Unlike most of the rest of the world I was more than somewhat pleased to face the cold, grey light of Monday morning. Not being dead was not to be sneezed …
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