99 Curses

Kara’s Vale is a spooky place that lends itself well to the tales of witches and black magic that founded it. But nobody ever expected anything like this.

Ted, the police sergeant, has two problems. One of them is a drinking problem. The other is the gruesome massacre of nine people at a party in the town hall. There’s blood on the walls, guts on the floor and a head swinging from the chandelier. These murders make no sense. And none of the surviving witnesses saw an attacker. Ted believes this is the work of supernatural forces.

The witch, on the other hand, has ninety problems: the ninety remaining residents of Kara’s Vale. She’s got an impossible amount of power, a strong stomach and a vivid imagination, and she’s using all three to systematically tear Kara’s Vale apart. She watches with glee as the police scratch their heads and the bodies pile up. She never wanted any of this. At least, not at first. Now, she wants it all. And nothing is going to stand in her way.

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5. Bad Blood

She tended to spend a little too much time thinking about D.I. Ted Pride. Did he ever eat anything other than fast food and copious amounts of booze? Not that she’d been watching him, which she hadn’t. Not even slightly. She wasn't worried, though; he wasn't even a threat. She was more than confident, as she watched the blood-red sun sinking under the horizon of the doomed town, that that bumbling ass would never even come close to finding out who she was, or what she was up to. Hell- even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop what she was going to unleash on the town tonight. After all, only gods could control the weather. Gods like her.

She looked out of the window, resting her chin on her hand and letting her eyelids droop as she watched that hulking mass of clouds approaching over the mountains. The clouds hung heavy in the sky, black as tar, their edges soaked in the blood of the setting sun.

She opened the window. She’d been planning to do something more dramatic- a pyre in her back garden, perhaps, that’d allow her to dance and sing and scream into the heavens like a proper-ass witch, a genuine madwoman, but it was too fucking cold for that. So she sat on the ground, with her legs crossed, in front of the furnace, and lit the logs on fire. She muttered her spell, blowing it with the putrid smoke up the chimney so it flung itself out of the chimney and into the sky. The vial of blood she brought out of her cupboard- well, it wasn’t a vial, exactly; more like a bucket- fizzed like lava as she emptied it into the flames. She watched it evaporate, leaving a rust on the logs and a crimson stain in the smoke. She wondered, without really giving a shit, whether anyone’d notice the bright red smoke flying out of her cabin’s chimney. If they did, nobody’d believe them. If anyone did, she’d shut them up. Turn the smoke red with their blood, see how they liked it. She was unstoppable. She didn’t need to worry about being caught.

“You bored of the rain yet, little town?" She murmured to herself. "Let me spice it up for you."

She laughed like a maniac.

Then, she made herself a cup of hot chocolate, pulled her comfiest armchair up to the window, and watched as the rain started falling. It fell in sheets- sticky, dark, thick sheets. Red sheets  

The blood rain was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

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