The Bangor Witch

Rather a bonny face really, not ugly at all, not for a witch that is. But really that’s what Mary
Thorn was - a witch. She’d always known she was different from
other people, even as a girl; other girls were so well-meaning, they
always said the right thing, knew the right thing to do. Mary was
having none of it, though she did know how to disguise her real
feelings. She wanted to harm others, be malevolent; it was so much
more satisfying for Mary Thorn to have the upper hand, put people in
their place. They were nobodies; she was a somebody with special
powers, or that’s how she saw it. So, she was pleasant enough to
look at but had a large pimple near her mouth and a medium-sized mole
on her cheek. Maybe they gave her away just a bit, that and her
flapping, black cape, worn in most weathers. She’d tie a colourful
Jacquard scarf around her neck and wear a sea-green, felt hat on her
head. She wanted to look neither poor nor affluent, for in truth she
was on the breadline. Her shoes were clumpy and black, with thick
heels, but they suited her. She claimed some sort of benefit but it
wasn’t widow’s pension for she never married. No one had been
good enough; not for Mary Thorn.

When people looked at Mary they thought her younger than her years. She was sixty but could
pass for thirty-five. Some thought it down to the Bangor air; all
those sea breezes rushing in from the Irish sea. Mary knew different.
It was devil worship, pure and simple. Bangor was a fair city to
Mary. She had no complaints. Her little cottage perched beneath
Bangor mountain, and accessible up eight steps to a railed terrace,
was called Tal-y-bont. She loved being Welsh; she loved the singing
of the male voice choirs, the music of the harpists, and the
tradition of folk lore. She’d read the Mabinogion and believed
every word. She knew too there had been many Welsh witches. Mary was
simply their latest incarnation. She wanted to do evil; it was her
raison d’etre, and sometimes, if you looked closely enough, you’d
see the malevolence in her coal-black eyes, the hatred, the
bitterness, the terrible malice. But of course she’d learnt to
cover it when she was on her guard. She pretended to love children
and animals, though in truth she wouldn’t be without her cat
Strike. Strike was a black cat with two piercing aquamarine eyes that
glowed in the dark. A cliche maybe, but necessary to the black arts
of the occult, and Mary was very fond of them.

Necromancy was an art she had perfected. She loved to commune with the the spirits. She
would light candles, black ones of course, ring her silver bell,
desecrate her tattered bible, and summon up a multitude of ghosts.
Ghosts beyond time that inspired her prophecies, prophecies of the
future times ahead. She knew of course that people would become
increasingly robotized. They'd have a multiplicity of mechanical body
parts; new hearts, livers, kidneys, all made from new materials
skewed from the new technology. Until one day humans would die out as
an inefficient race and robots would rule the world. After all they
would never die, how much more reliable they would be and how much
more in keeping with the new morality, where human weakness was a
thing of the past. With climate change the land would become
increasingly difficult to live on, hence new subterranean worlds
would emerge where conditions were so much better. After all robots
would not have to breathe. Sea pods would become all the rage too,
miles beneath the sea, and the colonization of the planets, the moon,
Mars, and the moons of Uranus, would all play host to advanced forms
of artificial intelligence. Mary would tell people what she knew and
be laughed at; this infuriated her and only increased her resolve to
get back.

She went to the cathedral in the city not to pray to a God she did not believe in but
to dissemble and disguise her true feelings, and of course to worship
her own personal devils. How foolish, she thought, these ordinary
folks are that worship a God that doesn't exist. The Devil rules the
world and always has. She harboured a secret hatred of the clerics of
the church, particularly the Bishop of Bangor, and she plotted in her
own mind how one day she might rid herself of this overweening
cleric. But she didn't have to wait long, for one Sunday it was
announced he had died, probably through Mary's casual malevolence,
uttered impersonally in her incantations and her imagination, from
the moment she had set eyes on him. Such is the power of witches, no
man is safe.

There were people in town Mary could just not stand, apart from the Bishop of Bangor. She
didn't need any reason, she hated through love of hating. It was like
a snake's yellow-green venom oozing from her black soul. Often it
could be students at the university in Top Coll she focussed her
malice on. She loved the end of term exams for then she would call on
the devil himself to increase a certain student's tension and nerves;
break them on the wheel is all Mary wanted to do. The more beautiful
and clever the student the more Mary wanted to do them damage. Her
jealousy was bitter and twisted. She'd love to see a first class
student fail more than anything. She'd be seen in the quad focussing
on the exam hall, trying to break the concentration of the best
students. She was noticed sometimes too by the new Philology
Professor. If a student broke down at his desk Mary was always there
muttering in the background. Rumours started to circulate. That woman
in the black cape, people would say, is she really so innocent, or
does she harbour some kind of malice for decent people? Mary Thorn
was beginning to be found out.

Mary thought to herself I must be seen more often in church. I am starting to get funny
looks, but this will certainly not stop me. So she attended mass on
Sundays and sometimes on weekday mornings too. It was one Sunday she
heard a new bishop had been appointed. It was a woman this time;
Felicity Furlong was her name. I'll get her, she thought to
herself. She won't be here five minutes before she has some sort
of 'accident'. For if Mary could engineer an 'accident' she would
thrill inside so sick had she become. One day she met this Felicity
Furlong: mutton dressed as lamb, she thought, and it was while
Felicity was chatting to Mary she let drop she was making a journey
to Chester to see her family. “Oh, when are you going?” asked
Mary full of intent. “On Saturday. I'm getting the coach because my
car has broken down.” Right, thought Mary, I'll get to
work on you right away. Mary knew when the bus left in the
morning and prepared to do her dirty deeds.

When Saturday came she
walked in a large circle round where the bus was parked. She would
encircle it in hate, for if the circle was unbroken disaster would
surely come to its occupants. She uttered her cabbalistic
incantations as she circled the area around the bus. Evil and
malice should cause the bus to crash, she thought, and she was
right. For ten minutes into the journey a flying magpie smashed
against the windscreen and threw the driver off course. The bus
skidded and crashed into an oncoming lorry. There was carnage
everywhere. The poor newly-elected bishop was near the front of the
bus and that's where most of the fatalities were. The Bishop of
Bangor was dead on arrival at the hospital. Four other people died on
that bus, including the driver. Mary Thorn was a heartless bitch and
now a murderess.

And yes it was the Professor of Philology who saw Mary walking near the parked bus. He
also knew something about the occult arts but of course did not
practise them himself. He considered she was a dangerous woman. She
would have to be stopped and soon. New rumours circulated about Mary
and now it was too late for her to attend mass as a cover. Good
people started to hate, but they thought, let us be like Mary and not
show our hate. Rather we will show her kindness, be just as false as
she is. It was a good parishioner who came up with a plan. Let's give
Mary a convector heater for her bedroom. She is always complaining
how cold her bedroom is. We will just make a few minor adjustments to
it before we give it to her. And of course Mary Thorn thought how
kind these suckers are; they haven't got a clue. I killed those
people. I will be lovely and warm tonight while Felicity Furlong rots
in her grave.

It was a good day for Mary; she'd achieved a lot. So, drinking cider all day
and ending up quite tipsy, she tumbled into bed, her convector heater
going full blast. She soon was fast asleep, the covers on her bed
falling about her, but getting terribly close to the heater. I think
the rest speaks for itself, don't you? A fitting end for one hell
bent on evil. What Mary never seemed to realize was that that old
adage 'what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander' is true.
Not to mention the wages of sin is death..