The Wicca Horror Show: Premiere, #1

By Mick Williams

The zany queen of the dead comes to Earth from a parallel world of magic and monsters to start her own Saturday night horror show. Political correctness takes its lumps from her clueless handling of today's issues. The show's producer is Ed, one of five friends who stumbled into Wicca's world by accident and became celebrity super heroes. The action tracks their capers in both realities. Wicca gets her episodes from a crystal skull that records the heroes' comic adventures in the outworld. Assisting her is the dwarf Hecabano and a lecherous agent who doesn't know just what he's chasing. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mick Williams
• Release date: Dec 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507082263

Book preview

The Outworld, in the Southern Blight

Ed crept downstairs fully armed and provisioned. After years of celebrity status with the Team Dan strike group, he was going back to Earth. He felt like a heel doing it this way, but Dan had nixed the return attempt as too risky. Ed would be the guinea pig.

In the common room, a few drunks were still conscious at this predawn hour, heads bent in some skullduggery or other. They noted his passage without comment. Nobody messed with Team Dan. Good looking, heavily armed—no job too big! went their motto.

A green-skinned Lunari woman made her way toward him. She sported the black hair and floral wrap of her island culture. Some of them found profit in the pleasure trades. Ed had done the gaming houses with one or two on his arm as social escorts. It was a good way for them to escape life in a fishing village.

Team Dan, Team Dan! She fended off a groper. There’s a dead woman on the bar!

You’re partly right, Ed replied, stroking his goatee. It’s her brain that’s dead. He strode to the bar, where a sailor in a peacoat slumped on his stool, his head against her boots. Ed elbowed him aside, dumping him on the floor. The man curled up and began to snore.

Ed surveyed the scene. A fine sight first thing in the morning. Though gray of skin, Wicca was plenty easy on the eye. Her black pageboy cut was growing out. She always wore black, lately favoring velvet with white embroidery. It was a change from her usual coffin shroud.

He hesitated. The back wall was lined with colorful bottles—spirits and brews that couldn’t be had on Earth. He’d miss the hell out of them, being a man who appreciated fine drink. Then there was the adulation of fans; monster bashing with Dan, Pete, Bonnie and Zena, which was the moniker Nancy had adopted. He’d miss the team’s signature pirate garb with swords and cross-belts. He’d really miss the girls’ fantastic and revealing costumes.

Had it been only three years since the vacation at Glastonbury Abbey? The five co-workers toured it because Dan, their manager, was into the Locklor Chronicles stories. Locklor Castle on the Adriatic was ruins now, but had once hosted a school of magic, with a haunted labyrinth where students cut their teeth. In Crusader times, a team had discovered a dimensional portal at the lower frontier, becoming the first in a thousand years to make the crossing. Team Hathor, they were called—Ed had met them in person.

That’s because there was a second portal, a time portal, at Glastonbury. When Dan stumbled upon the Chalice Chamber, they’d been trapped. The only way out was forward, into the glowing mist. They emerged in the dead labyrinth on the other side and made their way to Eolca, an island empire featured in the Chronicles.

The sorceress Wayacth placed them in the magic academy to spite the old order. She was tired of students being lured to private service, cutting short their growth. She built the legend of Team Dan from scratch, arranged a celebrity tour of Lunari, and they were famous overnight. Living up to the hype had gotten them into some hairy scrapes.

That was Ed’s meal ticket. He slapped Wicca’s rump.

She rolled to a sitting position and fixed him with exotic eyes. You better have a good reason for doing that, Ned.

Ed. He knew how far he could go with her.

Wicca had died while trying to assassinate a member of her team, none other than Wayacth, on a mission to the dark realms. Someone or something had brought her back. She was no longer a wizardress, but a mage, and a powerful one. You might say your classic super villain. They had done a few missions together, the dirty work, because no one else on Team Dan could stomach her.

Use English, he added. You’ve been around us long enough.

She made an evil grin, strangely appealing due to the arced upper lip. It made a gumdrop shape to echo her hair style. You’re going through with it—going back to Earth. I definitely want to see cars and airplanes...and the picture boxes with people in them.

Tv, Ed supplied. You remember my plan if I ever hit the lottery?

Wicca made a razzing sound. Your own late night horror show—whatever that is.

Ed hopped onto the bar, sword slapping on the edge. He sighed. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked. Everybody and his dog had the same idea. Crappy movies, corny jokes, cheesy special effects. But you’re the real deal. You can call up our adventures on the glass skull and make your own special effects. No royalties; just rent a studio and hire a production crew. And an agent, of course. I can swing that until the show starts making money.

She looked askance. You say millions of people will see me in the pic...in the tv. It’s the captive audience I’ve always craved.

From behind the bar arose a silvery pointed helm. The white-bearded dwarf beneath it wore a sleeveless charcoal vest and trousers, with off-white boots. Not without me, said the author of the Locklor Chronicles. He was almost two centuries old, but still spry.

Wicca exposed upper gums in a sneer. Didn’t I kill you in the Druid city?

You tried to. More than once. Hecabano had raided the talisman room of the Lord of the Dead, pursued by Wicca, at the time in the employ of a Fringian prince. It was one of many capers she could summon to the crystal skull. Earth viewers would eat it up, despite a glut of big-ticket films. Reality always trumped fiction, though they’d never know it was true events.

He’s right, Ed decided. The dwarf would be the perfect foil, the long-suffering sidekick. We need him.

My flying stick will be crowded, Wicca reminded them. It means a week’s trek into the dead labyrinth, and it will be a long time before we can come back—if ever.

Can you get us out of the chamber at Glastonbury? Ed asked.

You forget my power, Fred.

The two men traded looks.

Ed’s pulse sped up. They also had to cross the Atlantic. Wicca would need flesh paint. Hecabano would need Earth garb. They should be able to con their way onto a plane with Wicca’s magic. The bank cards should still work, since none of the team had family to claim their possessions after being declared missing.

Wicca tapped his head. What’s it going to be, love?

The note Ed left with the team promised he’d get word to them if he could, prove that crossing back was possible. Maybe they’d understand. Being a super hero had been a blast, but he longed for normalcy, the comforts of home.

We’d better go before sunrise. Ed had a lump in his throat.

You’re on, said the Queen of the Dead.

Earth, two months later

Walking across a grassy field with his agent, Ed was assailed with doubts. He hadn’t counted on the cops asking a thousand questions about his missing comrades. Why wasn’t there a record of his flight from England? To be consistent, he told the truth. They told him not to leave town.

He didn’t intend to. His new look was that of a tv producer: white sport jacket over jeans; clean shaven; hair growing out, already over the ears. And of course, the five o’clock shadow, carefully maintained.

Wicca was hidden away in a basement, requiring neither food nor air. Hecabano whiled away the time in their apartment, coming up with script ideas.

J. B. Bigmon, a small-time promoter, came to a halt in knee-high grass. He wore a black suit with gold tie. His high forehead dominated Andalusian features. There it is, Ed. I took the long way to show it off.

Nestled in rolling woodland was a Victorian mansion that was overgrown and in need of paint. Only the transmitter tower showed it was the site of a tv station. A warm summer breeze rustled trees abuzz with cicadas.

Ed’s face fell. You’re kidding. This operation looks like it’s in foreclosure.

You aren’t far off. Bigmon dabbed at his face with a white handkerchief. Conscious of the heat, Ed pushed his sleeves up. We’re going to change that. We’ll do the show right here, with their studio and their people. How’s that for low startup cost?

They trudged uphill, past roaring air conditioner equipment, emerging in a weed-grown gravel parking lot. A few cars baked in spots marked off in fading paint, near the station’s van.

W-AMOK, Ed said, reading the faded call letters.

Bigmon beamed. "It’s perfect. Amok. Love it, love it. Now let’s close the deal."

A cheap outfit like this couldn’t pay much. What was Bigmon thinking? The concept was killer, and here they were in this mausoleum. On the other hand, it was tailor made for a horror show. If they sold the station manager.

The agent paused at the glass door. "You know, Ed, they may ask about that glass skull—how you get movies out of it. Especially where they come from. Could be some copyright issues. I have to say, though, they’re gonna love Wicca. I can’t wait to see her in costume."

That had crossed Ed’s mind. Bigmon was just the type to make a move. Wicca was man crazy, to be sure, but only when she was the aggressor.

Once inside, Ed took note of pictures hung in a narrow hallway. Then his eye settled on a poster. Keeping on top of storms so they don’t keep on top of you, he read. "Holy crap! We’re pitching a horror show to a weather station?"

Think big, Bigmon said, nonplused. We start low, keep our options open. He clapped Ed’s padded shoulder. How can they not like it? Hell, my last client was a dog who barked ‘God Save the Queen’.

In a circular reception room, the secretary ushered them through another glass door. Two people at a desk rose to greet them. Mr. Alphonse was the middle-aged station owner. Mrs. Skyler was the assistant manager.

Ed sat next to Bigmon on a small sofa, reminded of a Seinfeld episode. This would probably end the same way. They had no experience and no idea; at least not a sane one.

Alphonse perched a leg on a desk corner. He clasped hands, sleeves rolled halfway to the elbows. "Gentlemen—the board of directors likes your idea. What’s unique about it is the quality of your work. Classic films are cheap in terms of broadcast rights and bad enough that viewers don’t mind the host breaking in. Wicca has the sex angle, but she’s not...current."

She pretends to be from a different world, Mrs. Skyler said. How can she not know any actors or politicians?

Alphonse nodded. Consider another host—one with an act to match the films.

Ed surprised himself by chuckling. Not only did Wicca have the act, but the magic the whole thing relied on. He made a wry face and rubbed his fashionable chin stubble. Trouble is, no one else can use the skull. The thing about her is she’s always in outworld mode. Call her crazy, but funny things happen when she’s around. Funny like snakes in the living room.

A what-the-hell look passed between the suits.

I think you may have something, Alphonse said.

Of course we do. Bigmon twirled a diamond pinky ring. Ed here is a brilliant new talent on the writing scene. Wicca is the zany hostess, trading barbs with the surly dwarf. This is gonna be huge.

Mrs. Skyler adjusted her glasses. Miss Wicca is pretty secretive about the glass skull. It’s amazing technology. But we’re concerned about who owns the rights to these films.

"I do," Ed blurted, suddenly inspired. He pulled out his wallet and presented photos of the team from pre-Glastonbury days, wearing everyday garb.

The managers passed them back and forth.

These are the people in the film, Alphonse confirmed. "The problem now is them. Who represents the rights to their image? Is there family involved?"

I explained that to the cops, Ed said. They’ve retired someplace where they don’t want to be found.

Do you have that in writing? Mrs. Skyler asked.

Folks. Bigmon held up both hands. Ed is prepared to take full responsibility for any problems from that quarter.

I am? In response to Ed’s idea about marketing the team’s faces on shirts, Pete had quipped: ‘If this catches on, can I sue?’ Sure, Ed had replied, never expecting it to actually happen.

We’ll need that on paper, Alphonse said.

Done. Bigmon pulled out a contract. Shall we get to work?

An hour later, Ed’s brain was fried. He stepped outside with a grinning agent. The heat met them like opening an oven door.

Bigmon offered a big hand. I have a feeling about this, Ed. I just might ditch my other projects.

Right. Finding bit parts for starving actors.

By the way, he added. Do you have a script? We start tomorrow night. We’ll take the place of a show called ‘Shapes in Clouds’.