Posted on Wednesday, 31 October 2007

My name is Jane Fairfax. I am a witch. ‘Oh, a white witch?’ I hear you ask. No, definitely not, but thanks for asking. I don’t know about you, but for me, white witches are about the most boring creatures on earth. All this happy-feel-good stuff makes me sick, and there is only so much talk of get-well potions and fluffy cuddly imaginary kittens I can stomach. No, whenever I see them, with their resolute happy faces, their practical tweed skirts and the invariable trail of white doves fluttering around them, I cross the street as fast as I can and disappear into the next bookshop, or pet store, or charity boutique, or anywhere where they won’t find me.

No, I am a scarlet witch. ‘What does that mean?’ you ask. Well, if you’re an ordinary person, not much for you. I’ll probably ignore you. If you happen to be a zombie or a ghoul or some other blood-sucking creature, not so much luck for you, I fear. As a matter of fact, you’d better prepare for your headless life very soon.

‘Ohnoes,’ I hear you mutter. ‘Not another Charmed-copycat who runs around zapping demons in leather bras and too-tight pants.’ Oh, puh-lease! First of all, my pants are none of your business, and my trousers are definitely not too tight. Secondly, I am not from some TV-show where I have to fight against newly-invented creatures every other week in between having raunchy encounters with half-demons or trying to find out how much skin I can possibly bare. (Not, you know, that I am a prude or anything - I told you I am not a white witch - but even I stop when it looks like nothing but an assortment of strings and scraps.) For your information, there aren’t even any demons out there. What I fight are ghouls (which you might know as ghosts) and zombies (also known as your average undead). Of which the zombies, I ought to inform you, are the more dangerous. They suck your blood, you know? Although I have made the discovery that kids these days can’t tell a zombie from a ghoul. Honestly, it’s dead easy. It even crops up in Harry Potter, but do you kids listen? Yes, I know they call the zombies Inferi there, and their ghosts aren’t called ghouls, but the principle is the same.

But no, I’m not a witch ‘like in Harry Potter.’ I mean, I like Harry Potter (who doesn’t?) a lot, but it’s not real, is it? Want to know what I am like? I suppose I am like Severus Snape - no, not the hair. ‘There will be no foolish wand-waving with me.’ (Yes, I memorised that sentence because of Mr Rickman. Yes, even witches go to the movies. Occasionally.) Nor do I need spells. I work with energy. It’s hard to understand, I know, but controlling energy properly is not some feng shui mumbo-jumbo. This is real, and it works. Ask any impaled zombie in your neighbourhood and he’ll confirm it.

Anyway, I didn’t want to yak about me the whole time. What you wanted to hear about was what happened last Saturday. I had just flown in from America to spend a quiet autumn weekend with my aunt (she thinks I am just a piano teacher at Juilliard. She also thinks that I am dating Frank Churchill. Well, I suppose I am, sort of, but I really don’t have much time, what with performances, first-year tuition and nightly hunting). My aunt, the dear that she is, had invited everyone who could come on such short notice for an impromptu Halloween party when she had remembered that this is what they do in America, even though I protested I did not need it. Of course, what happened was that she called people late night on Friday (Halloween being on Saturday, as you know) and of course we were woken up thrice that night. First, we heard a ghastly bump on the front door around eleven. I opened the door, while my aunt clutched her baseball bat, and sure enough, Harriet the teenager from across the street had been so excited at the prospect of a party that she had come to accept the invitation in person. The next time it knocked, I couldn’t even see who it was, because of course the full moon was obscured by a cloud and the fellow was wearing a coat and a hood, but I could see they had come with a horse. ‘Bobbie Martin!’ my aunt exclaimed and I realised that Harriet’s boyfriend had knocked on the wrong door again. I suppose he isn’t used to the concept of numbering houses, what with living on a farm and everything. When it knocked on the door again, I hadn’t even bothered to go to bed - the sheets were clammy anyway. The first thing I noticed was a scream. Pretty eerie in the silent street, I can tell you. ‘Jane!’ Augusta Hawkins howled. ‘Is it a costume party? Should I come as a shepherdess? Or a naughty French maid?’ A chill ran down my spine and I could feel her voice echo in my teeth. ‘Augusta, I think my aunt is asleep,’ I whispered. It was no use. ‘Your hair, Jane! Is that a spider’s web, or the latest fashion in America?’ She grinned widely and I could see the blood oozing from her fangs - uh, strike that. Of course there wasn’t blood oozing and of course those weren’t fangs. ‘Erm, toothache coming up, Augusta,’ I managed to mutter before hastily shutting the door in her face. (I told you, it’s all about controlling the energy and releasing it at the right time. I didn’t tell you? Well, you know now.)

Well, anyway, you can imagine how I didn’t get much rest that night and correspondingly, I wasn’t in the best of moods the evening of the party. I tried to stay close to the punch bowl (sometimes, energy just isn’t everything) and not to talk to too many people, but that plan miserably failed. First I had to admire Harriet’s costume, then Emma tried to chat to me - I mean, she is a nice girl and all that, but I know how great her boyfriend is (come on, Emma, I know him as long as you do!) and I don’t need to talk about food all the time. When Emma had decided that snogging George was more fun than talking to me, Augusta saw her chance. ‘You still haven’t told me why your hair is cut like that,’ she shrieked. The blood dripping from her teeth was shining in the light of one of my aunt‘s aromatherapy-candles. I hastily extinguished the candle with a move of my hand (it’s all in the energy, you know?) so that I wouldn’t have to see her fangs. No, strike that. Of course she didn’t have any fangs. And there wasn’t any blood on them either. Anyway, she droned on and on, about this and that, and Elton and her job and how much she liked Frank (she had seen him, what, five times last autumn?) and why wasn’t Frank here, and had I broken up with him and when would he come. And all the time, I could see her fangs grow longer and longer and that eerie red light flickering in her eyes. Um, no, of course there weren’t any fangs. And only zombies have red eyes. And I mean, Augusta wasn’t exactly a zombie, although she was pretty damn horrid. ‘And what did Frank say that you came here all on your own?’ she shrieked. It was very disconcerting that her eyes looked exactly like those of a zombie. She looked like Voldemort’s twin sister, only without the bald head. Although I’m pretty sure she’s bald below that wig, so you’d best imagine Lord Voldemort with a wig of platinum blond curls and braids, all piled up on top of his head and held together with a turquoise scarf. Even her nose somehow looked flatter than usual. No, I don’t mean she actually looked like Voldemort. You got that wrong. It was just a trick of the light. And anyway, zombies don’t look like Voldemort either. I just used that as an example for the red eyes.

No, I have no idea how her face ended up in that punch bowl. No, inspector, I told you, I am a scarlet witch. I don’t drown people or suffocate them. I only kill zombies. With energy. I told you inspector, it’s all about the energy. And I only do it because I have to. Because that’s my duty. No, I really wasn’t involved in that incident - you mean she was stabbed before she keeled over into the bowl? But honestly, what reason would I have to kill her? With a bread-knife? That’s pretty gruesome, isn’t it?

The End