Pumpkin Spice, стр. 31

No answer. He knocked again. No answer. He pulled his shotgun from his back and held it up for safety. He walked down the front steps and made his way to the side of the house. There was a storm cellar, he removed the cover and looked down the stairs. A trail of blood guided him to the interior. He raised his shotgun and walked down the stairs.

The storm cellar was dark and damp, exactly how he expected. The cowboy waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He looked around; it was filled with old junk. Old dolls, clothing, the storm cellar was essentially a storage unit.

The door slammed shut.

The cowboy was surrounded by darkness. That was when he heard the cackling laugh of a witch. He was surely not alone down there. He held his gun up in defense. The witch cackled yet again. This occultist was not one he had ever crossed paths with. Witches had a tendency to be flashy, and show off. It was what made them so easy to kill. This witch wanted the cowboy to know she was there, but didn’t care for putting on a spectacle.

The cowboy flung his gun around and came face to face with… himself. Himself? There he was staring back at him. He removed his right hand from the trigger of his gun and waved, the being in front of him did the same. The door was behind him. He slowly stepped backwards towards it, all the while his other self stepped forward. The two were inseparable. The cowboy didn’t know what to make of this. As he got closer to the door his twin began to grow in size. Soon it was twice his size in both height and width. He felt the stair on his back foot. He fired his gun at his duplicate and it suddenly burst into smoke. He turned around and ran up the stairs. The doors were jammed. Locked! He turned back. Once again, the room was empty and pitch black. “So, the cowboy witch hunter has come to kill me.” A voice echoed in the darkness. “Kill you? I’ve come to talk to you. Nothing more.” The cowboy shouted. “LIES!” The witch replied as candles lit up on their own all across the room. Still no sign of the witch. “Why don’t you show yourself so we can talk?” The cowboy politely asked. “Why don’t you drink your holy water so we can talk?” The witch snorted. “If I do that we can talk?” The cowboy inquired as he held his gun up, “But of course.” The witch now sounded like a child. “OK.” The cowboy removed three vials of holy water and drank them. He dropped the glass vials on the floor beneath him and the glass shattered all over the floor. The flames of the candles were extinguished. The cowboy held his shotgun tight ready to pull the trigger if need be. A cloud of white smoke swirled at his feet. It grew higher and higher. Eventually the witch emerged from the smoke. “Hello, Mr. Cowboy.” The witch was beautiful, her eyes were pulsing blue, her hair dark as night, her skin tanned, perfectly smooth and clear. She smiled at the cowboy; he noticed her teeth were sharp as knives. This was enough for the cowboy to determine he didn’t need to speak with the witch. She was a witch and he was a witch hunter. He fired his gun at her six times. Her body dropped to the ground. He reloaded his shotgun, and shot her six more times. He reloaded one final time and shot the witch six more times. He then unzipped his pants and urinated into the holes he put into her. The holy water in his urine was activated and the witch’s body began trembling before exploding into dust.

The cowboy used the butt end of his shotgun to break through the storm cellar doors. He looked around at the empty property and walked off. Lucky for the cowboy there was a church not too far from the farmhouse. When he entered the church a priest approached him, “Blessed day.” The priest smiled at the cowboy. “Cut the crap, I need holy water.”

“Have you sinned?” The priest asked innocently enough, “Every day, many times a day. I need holy water.” The priest decided to appease the cowboy and gave him several bottles, he walked the cowboy to the stoup and allowed him to take as much holy water as he desired. “When were these blessed?” the cowboy asked, “Just this morning.” The cowboy placed them into his vest and walked away.

Outside the church a woman was waiting for him. He walked by her. She followed him. Eventually he stopped and turned to her, but he let her have the first word “I know who you are.” She crossed her arms, “You’re that cowboy witch hunter.” The cowboy slow clapped, “You figured it out. What gave it away, the cowboy hat or the cowboy boots?” He said facetiously. “Did my cousin find you alright?” This caught the cowboy’s attention. “Barry?” He asked. The woman smiled, “That’s him.”

“Barry’s dead.” The cowboy did not have a way with women. “I suspected he would be, I suppose he revealed himself to you? His true self?” She uncrossed his arms, “Yeah, you could say he did. And I’ll have you know I don’t much care for sorcerers. They’re basically witches.” He refused to show any emotion. “They defend us from witches. They aren’t like witches at all.”

“If they defend us from witches where’ve they been all this time? Who was there to save my family?” The cowboy was letting his emotions get the better of him, “There are too few of them out there, cowboy. They can’t help anyone. My cousin was one of the last. Not many left I’m afraid.”

“I killed that witch for