Large Fierce Mammal

“Lunenburg is an old town officially settled in 1753, and from such age is born much mystery and superstition. My father was a beneficiary of this and, with no disrespect to him, I will reveal that I came to know his faith in the old stories held more power in his life than anything his attendance of the Presbyterian Church could ever provide. He believed in witchcraft and malevolent magick. That bad luck could be simply bad luck, but persistent or exceptionally ill fortune could be the result of a spell cast by a witch on behalf of an envious or malicious rival. That warts could be “charmed” away. That a suspected witch could be tricked into identifying her or himself by constraining the suspect to enter or exit a premises by means of a doorway across which a broomstick had been secretly laid because a witch would make every desperate excuse possible to avoid stepping over it. That if you knew who cast it, a spell against you could be defeated by peeing in a bottle while thinking of the suspected witch, then corking it tightly and hiding it in a secure place. This would cause urination to become impossible for the witch requiring him or her to either find and uncork the bottle or, in final desperation, lift the spell from their intended victim.” ~ Musings as Hallowe’en Approaches

The lore says that when the spell I speak of here is voluntarily lifted, or those who invoked its casting die (amounting to the same thing), its effects go away. I prefer more definitive results.

Bad Choices

By LFM

A rival put a spell on me.
He paid to have it done.
When overnight my fortunes flagged,
I knew he was the one.

So I peed into a bottle
While I pictured him with care.
Then stoppered up the bottle tight
And hid it in my lair.

How e’er it took I made excuse
To stay and guard my trove,
So I’d be there to meet the one
That desperation drove.

For just as tight a plug had he
As did my hidden vial.
I knew he’d soon be seeking it
With every ounce of guile.

He’d need to find that vial of pee
And pull the stopper out,
Before a ruptured bladder
Put my bastard foe to route!

At sunset on the second day
He knocked upon my door.
The face he met my greeting with,
Less cocky than before.

He made excuse to come within,
He claimed he’d done me wrong.
He gasped that we were friends estranged
And parted for too long.

The perfect host, I smiled at him,
And beckoned him inside.
Yet my foe was fixed in place!
All movement was denied!

Across the threshold of the door
I’d lain me down a broom,
To keep the one who’d hired the spell
From entering the room.

I saw it in in his eyes he knew
I’d barred all ways inside,
And knew that he could tell from mine
I’d wait until he died.

Died with that who took his fee
To lay their spell of greed.
That one was likewise tortured
Knowing where my spell would lead.

I closed the door and poured some port
To sip beside the fire.
Four hours hence the screams rang out,
More sweet than any choir.