Darkness fell across all the land.
Everyone on the set of The Witching Hour with Miss Mallory Malicious was in such a haste they could disturb the dead. “Where the hell is she?” the director cried in despair.“Don’t worry, Archer, she’ll be here in a while,” Lizzy reassured him.
And as she said, so it was. The She Archer was so nervous about not having showed up was here now. She entered the room dressed in all black, which reflected her already pale complexion like coal thrown into snow. Her raven hair was flowing down her back. Her massive silver necklace caught the lights and shone upon her heavy eyelids and high cheekbones, casting a rough, dramatic shadow over her face and making her visage resemble Vampira or Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. She looked upon everybody else with macabre indolence and indifference. “Are you ready to start?” she asked. “Lights, camera, acción!”
The camera started rolling, as soon as She heard Archer’s quiet countdown replaced by an even more quiet, “Go,” she started screaming as if she saw a daemon just before her eyes. “What a talent,” everyone thought, but was too overwhelmed by Her acting to articulate it.
“You scared me! Don’t you ever startle me like that again! You know, I may… curse you” she started talking into the camera, smirking a little on that last phrase and accompanying it with a deep chuckle. “Well, well, if you wanted to join me, you should have just said so! Tonight all creatures great and small, young and old are welcome into my dwelling! The clock is about to strike midnight, the Witching Hour is closing in, you know.” The whole room was covered in white smoke, making Miss Malicious vanish for a while, only to reappear with a crystal ball in her hands. “This little thing… this crystal ball will tell your future. Come closer,” the cameraman moved closer, “Oh! Something terrible will happen…” Having said that, she gazed into the camera, right into the souls of the spectators, and heard the director screaming, “Cut!”
That night, Miss Malicious got a couple dozen compliments on her immaculate performance and was enjoying herself to the greatest extent. She was in her dressing room when someone knocked. “Come in,” she said in an energetic tone. Lizzy, her executive producer, came in, “Hey superstar. You were shining bright tonight. Wanna drink to it?”
“Hell, I wouldn’t say no to some fine wine,” replied Mallory. She was glowing with crimson after having taken off all the heavy horror hostess makeup, and her hair framed her facial features, making her share the striking resemblance with self-portraits of Elin Danielson-Gambogi.
“Here’s to us,” said Lizzy, and Mallory gleefully seconded. By that time Miss Malicious was fully gone from her body and she was just another girl, not any different from anybody else. She drank from the glass and said, “This is some marvellous wine, I think I should–”
She didn’t finish. She dropped dead right on her dressing table. “And here’s to me!” joyed Lizzy. The truth was: She hated Mallory, hated her impeccable talent, hated her otherworldly beauty, hated how easily she could go from this friendly girl to Miss Mallory Malicious. Mallory made her life miserable, painted it with such a grim palette. So Lizzy decided to poison Mallory: So that she could take her place.
But Lizzy didn’t rejoice long. “Whew, that’s definitely some fine wine,” Mallory suddenly started talking. “What the hell?” thought Lizzy, “I just killed you. You can’t be alive.” But she was. And once again, her life was returning to black and grey. “No, no, no, this can’t be!” Lizzy yelled and took a wine bottle. The next thing she knew was her smashing the bottle against Mallory’s head, then slashing her throat with the glassing.
To her utmost surprise, neither of those actions murdered Mallory, either. She was some kind of which, it seemed – not just on-screen, but off-screen as well. Whatever she tried to do, nothing would kill Mallory dead. So she did one last thing which she could think of: She sedated poor thing, put her in a coffin, and buried her alive.
Lizzy’s life was coming back to normal, until one night, just after the clock struck midnight, there was a knocking on her door. “How peculiar, I don’t think I am expecting anyone,” she thought, but went to the door anyway. As soon as she opened the door and saw who was the mysterious guest at the doorstep, she moved back and cowered in fear.
She heard familiar words, “You scared me! Don’t you ever startle me like that again! You know, I may… curse you,” the witch chanted. She moved forward, her black hair covering her face almost completely. Her fingernails were ripped off from all the scratching on the coffin lid, her snow-white skin was fouled by the mud from rising from her earthly grave. “It’s the Witching Hour, you know. You shouldn’t anger the witches!” said she and poor Lizzy’s ears were blown by the unsettling, nefarious shriek of the wicked banshee. This laughter would be the last thing Lizzy would hear in her life.
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