Beware the Witch

By Patrick J. Van Ora

In almost every page of Beware the Witch, something supernatural happens. Dont be concerned if you dont believe in the supernatural. Just suspend your disbelief and go along with the ride. This novel is meant to be a roller coaster, not an exhibit. The goal is to thrill, excite, amaze, and maybe even get you to cry out in horror or perhaps laugh. Meet the three main characters. The witch is a spectacularly beautiful, hypnotically alluring, powerful, vengeful, and very dangerous woman with dark and destructive secrets. The man with six forms of ESP is the hero. At first, he is drawn to the witch. However, he later decides that he must kill her because he wants to prevent his new love from succumbing to the temptation of becoming a witch and giving allegiance to His Satanic Majesty. This new love interest is caught between her fascination with both witchcraft and sensuality and her drive to do no harm to herself or others. She dislikes her humdrum, repetitious, not-very-sober life. Then again, you cant simply flirt with powerful forces. You need to be in or out, committed or not. You must choose one or the other: God or the devil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493156559

Book preview

CONTENTS

About The Author

One

Good Morning: Imagine Waking Up Next To Somebody With Six Forms Of ESP

Two

How I Met The Witch, And How She Punished The Doctor Who Wronged Her

Three

Let’s Explore India: Are Those Indians Amazing Or Crazy?

Four

Murder Most Blasphemous And Hideous: Is There A Cannibal In The Temple?

Five

Back At You, Witch: How Horrible To Be Cursed

Six

What Happens When The Witch Becomes Vexed And Anxious? Let’s Get On Our Way To Her Party

Seven

The Vampire Who Plays With Her Food

Eight

Watch Out: Again, The Witch Has Murder On Her Mind

Nine

At Play With The Witch: Can You Imagine How Much Fun You Can Have With Her?

Ten

Out In The Open And Made Clear: The Nakedly Vicious Side Of The Witch

Eleven

How Does A Witch Take Aim At A Traitor? With Rape And Torture Of Course

Twelve

Really, There Is Still A Hero To The Rescue Out There?

Thirteen

The Witch’s Reign Of Terror: Damn It, There’s A Rule—In The End, Evil Must Fall

DEDICATION

To my sons, Jason Patrick and Kenneth Eric, just enjoy and don’t judge Dad as immoral and godless.

OK, you can ask, How did he get that insane imagination?

Note: Patrick Van Ora is the author of a book published in 2010 about his experiences in Senegal, West Africa—The Peace Corps in Africa.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Patrick Jerome Van Ora was born and grew up in New York City. For eight years, he was indoctrinated by the Sisters of Saint Joseph in the Immaculate Conception Grammar School. Then he went on to four years at the all-boys high school Bishop Loughlin, in Brooklyn. Finally realizing that the scope of his education was too narrow, he earned a BA in English and philosophy from the State University of New York at Albany, a MA from the University of Kentucky, and a BS and physician assistant license from Touro College in Brooklyn. He served in the Peace Corps in Senegal, West Africa. Then he taught English for several years in NYC high schools. Finally, for more than twenty-three years, he was a physician assistant specializing in OB/GYN in NYC medical centers and hospitals. He now lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven…

Here at least we shall be free…

Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,

To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:

Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

               —Satan, Paradise Lost by John Milton

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

               —Exodus 22:18 (KJV)

If thy brother, the son of thy mother, or thy son, or thy daughter, or the wife of thy bosom, or thy friend, which is as thine own soul, entice thee secretly, saying, Let us go and serve other gods… Thou shalt surely kill him; thine hand shall be first upon him to put him to death, and afterwards the hand of all the people. And thou shalt stone him with stones, that he die; because he hath sought to thrust thee away from the Lord thy God, which brought thee out of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage.

—Deuteronomy 13:6-10 (KJV)

ONE

GOOD MORNING: IMAGINE WAKING UP NEXT TO SOMEBODY WITH SIX FORMS OF ESP

Stacey Marcus awakes with a headache. The sun is striking her because she forgot to close the curtains last night. Her mouth is dry and parched, insisting on that jar of water in the refrigerator. Her bladder is pressuring her to haul herself into the bathroom. Her whole body feels abused and weary all the way into the marrow of her bones.

Groaning, she postpones the aspirin, water, and toilet and tries to roll out of the sunlight. She bumps into something and suddenly realizes that she’s not alone in bed. A few light and gingerly touches confirm that there’s a man there, and they’re both quite naked.

What the hell was I up to last night? She ransacks her way through a foggy memory. Who am I in bed with? How much did I drink this time? Did I take out the time to put in my diaphragm? And please, God, let’s hope he used a condom.

Memories emerge slowly in disconnected fragments. There had been a New Year’s Eve party at the office after work. The party had moved on to Max’s Kansas City. She had worn her suede outfit and knee-high boots and slipped very easily into one of her flirtatious moods. She had stopped mixing her bourbon with 7 Up early in the evening. She had roamed from man to man and, obviously, stuck finally with one.

Had she broken one of her tenuous rules and made love with a coworker? Had she been so careless that she let her social life get mixed up with her job? What a pain in the ass to sleep with a guy and then have to see him, be unable to avoid him, day after day.

Well, don’t be so hasty, she instructs herself. If I did goof, maybe I might have at least chosen an attractive and discreet guy.

She looks at the man in her bed. He’s sleeping on his stomach, facing away from her. His dark brown hair with countless strands of gray doesn’t help her identify him. Sighing, she shoves herself upward and hovers over him.

Ryan Doyle, that’s a surprise. She would have guessed at a few men before him, but she’s not disappointed. His looks epitomize the dark Irishman—tall, brawny, with rugged and craggy features. In his midthirties, he appears rough-hewn and sort of unkempt but not dissipated at all.

Stacey is surprised to find him in her bed because he’s a quiet and elusive man. Until last night, he had never said more than greetings to her. It’s not that he acts in an aloof or unfriendly way, but he simply seems to be treading down his own separate path. Stacey would describe him as a man whom a woman readily speculates about but hesitates to approach. He fits his name: Ryan, little king; Doyle, dark stranger.

With an aching body and a throbbing head, Stacey gets out of bed. Finding herself dizzy with unfocused vision, she rummages through a drawer and takes out a yellow nightshirt. The light, soft fabric features an imprint of a costumed woman thrusting her way through a brick wall and large words saying, I’m your Wonder Woman. Stacey’s ex-husband had bought it for her.

She slips it over her head, and it falls to her midthighs. It gives her firm figure a tantalizing sleek look. This Junior lingerie garment also makes the twenty-nine-year-old Stacey feel younger.

Catching sight of her face in the bathroom mirror, she grimaces. Her skin looks so pallid, sallow, and unhealthy. Her expressive large brown eyes cry out in protest and pain, reflecting the relentless thudding of Stacey’s headache.

Even my hair feels like it’s hurting, she thinks as she brushes it down over her shoulders. Will I ever have a fresh and clean look again? Those days have certainly faded away when men used to say that I had an innocent baby face.

In the kitchen, she gulps down a pint of water in seconds. Then she turns the flame on under the pot of coffee that perked yesterday. She thinks of what she might make for breakfast and hopes that Ryan Doyle doesn’t expect anything hearty or complicated.

Trudging back into the main room of her studio apartment, she finds him looking at her from the bed. His eyes are fastened on her but reveal nothing. She keeps trying to piece together last night. Her memory is able to project vague film clips—her bumbling search for her coat and hat and scarf at the nightclub, Ryan Doyle’s assisting her and suggesting that they share a taxi, her cajoling invitation to come in for a nightcap, the conversation about the occult and some enticing type of yoga, and his sensitive way of undressing her and leading her to bed.

But I can’t recall a goddamned thing about our lovemaking! She feels like picking her memory up by the nape of its neck and shaking it. I’ll bet he was gentle yet firm, while I was a glutton. And like a fool, I did neglect to insert my diaphragm last night.

No, he says suddenly as though Stacey were thinking aloud, we didn’t make love. I cradled you in my arms until you were fast asleep. You did not need your diaphragm.

Was I so drunk that I turned you off?

Not at all. Even with all that alcohol, you were always witty and attractive. You wanted to make love, but I thought it’d be better if we wait.

She sits down on the bed and stares at him wryly. You were a man of integrity, she says in a tone imbued with skepticism. Then she becomes decidedly sarcastic. A veritable Cary Grant or Gregory Peck. Unwilling to take advantage of a besotted woman.

No, I often hold back and delay, teasing myself into a more intense desire, he explains with no particular inflection in his tone.

You’re so sure I’ll want you now that I’m not drunk? She has an incongruous mixture of playfulness and reticence.

You’re not in the mood for sex now, not with that pounding headache.

I’m looking so hungover. You figured I must have a headache too. Well, you’re right. And I’ll try not to take my bad mood out on you.

I’m not guessing at your thoughts. Right now, I’m feeling unusually telepathic, he continues to speak matter-of-factly.

Ha! she replies. Then she asks uneasily, What really happened last night? Did I make a fool of myself? Did I pass out while you were in the midst of making love to me? After all, we both ended up completely naked.

Do you drink like that often?

From time to time, she equivocates as another thoughtful and anxious expression takes over her face.

Again, Doyle reveals that uncanny ability to respond to her as though she were speaking the questions running through her mind. It won’t be awkward seeing me every day at work.

They are both readers for a small publishing house. Doyle handles query letters and manuscripts for the Science Fiction Department, while Stacey does the same for the Mystery Department. Neither of them makes much money nor finds much interest in the reams of correspondence and creative efforts that pass through their hands each week.

I don’t care much about gossip, Stacey declares. It’s just that when an affair goes sour, it’s irritating to have to see the other person anymore.

You’re in the habit of beginning every relationship with an assumption that it’ll go sour after a while?

Are you assuming that you’re going to be my next relationship?

He gives her an enigmatic smile instead of a reply.

Affairs are at least bound to get stormy every now and then, Stacey continues. Going to separate jobs can be a break, temporarily keeping the fighters apart.

You’re too quick to worry, he tells her and casts the bedcovers aside. Are you going to offer me some breakfast?

I hope you’re not spoiled. I can’t offer much.

You’ll find me very undemanding. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a couple of minutes.

He gets out of bed with enviable alertness and gusto and pads into the bathroom. In the kitchen, Stacey pours orange juice into two glasses, then figures she might as well wait for Doyle before taking out any breakfast food.

He enters the kitchen quite naked but behaves as calmly and naturally as though he were dressed. He sits down at the table and sips his juice.

Compulsively, while sensing that he’s not really trying to provoke her, Stacey gets defensive. I have too much of a hangover to get into a sexy mood this morning, she warns him. With the way my head is splitting, there’s no way I could enjoy anything. When Doyle doesn’t say anything, Stacey’s voice becomes almost shrill. I realize that a headache is a very hackneyed excuse, but in this case, it’s very true.

Who’s in a hurry? he says after a pause.

She finds him more and more unnerving. I like a man with self-confidence, but you tend to be a bit more on the arrogant side. When you’re dealing with me, take nothing for granted.

Can I count on some breakfast?

What do you want?

He stares fixedly at the kitchen cabinets and the refrigerator, then says, I’d like some eggs, but since you have none, you can give me a bowl of Cheerios.

He has named the only cereal that she has. You went snooping through my kitchen last night?

I’ve never set foot in your kitchen.

Now you’re telling me you’re clairvoyant as well as telepathic? she says scoffingly.

He simply nods.

I’m beginning to not trust you at all. Why do you have this need to try to impress me? We’ll get along better without that claptrap. There’s nothing wrong with helping yourself to something in my kitchen. But then, why indulge in pointless make-believe?

I’m not playing a game with you.

Noisily, she sets out the cereal, a bowl, cup, spoon, and milk in front of him and prepares to have the very same for herself. They say nothing for a couple of minutes. Doyle seems to enjoy the breakfast, but Stacey, in her foul and volatile mood, thinks it’s putrid. The milk tastes sour, and she’s embarrassed to serve coffee that perked and remained in the pot over twenty-four hours. However, even if she was having breakfast at the Plaza, she wouldn’t enjoy it with that headache.

Those two aspirin you took aren’t working, Doyle suddenly injects.

She nods and grimaces. Talk about having intuition! she thinks. Am I with some devious son of a bitch, or is he an honest guy with a special ability to sense what’s on my mind?

Look at him, sitting there so calmly without a speck of clothing on his body. Isn’t he showing off his physique, or is it so natural for him to be naked?

Doyle smiles gently and rises. He approaches Stacey, and she starts to blurt out another command for him to forget about sex. However, he walks behind her as she sits in her chair, then tenderly massages the side of her head, her forehead and temple, and the back of her head. His touch is very light but has a strange way of resonating potently through her.

Oh, terrific. Now you’re a psychic healer, she says, but her tone of voice is definitely less cynical.

At the very least, he has a knack for picking out just the right spots to rub away her pain. She closes her eyes and settles into letting him carry this on as long as he likes.

As her headache subsides to a surprising extent, she murmurs apologetically, When I’m in pain, I tend to be a bitch. And you’re such a mysterious character. I don’t know how to take you.

I usually keep it to myself that I have ESP powers. What is it about you that is leading me to reveal myself so quickly?

You’re serious? You really think you have such powers?

Doyle sighs. He concludes the healing massage by cupping his hands over Stacey’s eyes and then moving his fingers inward until they’re caressing her closed eyelids.

You have a very charming touch, she says sibilantly. If only you weren’t so confusing in other ways. As he moves away from her to pour himself another glass of orange juice, she adds, Your hands could be patented. I feel much better.

She studies his naked body more appreciatively. Her aching just might go from painful to pleasant.

Want to go back to the other room? he asks.

With an arch, rather roguish smile, Stacey says, All right, but please, don’t rush me.

She follows him with her eyes staring at his pale derriere. He keeps remaining so comfortably au naturel. Maybe I don’t have to find him demanding or disconcerting.

I was surprised by your pictures on the walls, Doyle comments, but I’m beginning to see and enjoy your message there.

There are three large posters framed and behind glass: black-and-white photographs of Bela Lugosi in a scene from Dracula, Boris Karloff as Frankenstein, and Lon Chaney as the Wolfman.

The fourth large picture is a collage of colorful scenes from a Frank Frazetta calendar. When the calendar became out-of-date, Stacey clipped out her favorite prints, arranged and pasted them herself, then had her collage put behind glass and framed. In one scene of multihued reds and browns, a warrior maiden wearing a scant amount of fur defends herself with a spear against a monstrous cat with huge canines and flying reptiles. In another scene of deeply tinged violet, red, and dark brown pigments, a princess wearing only a crown and a windswept cape rides the back of a grotesque spear-wielding centaur. Each of the other three prints also features a strong and voluptuous maiden and diverse monsters.

Doyle meanders around the room, absorbing Stacey’s taste. She is uneasy at first, expecting condescension and jocular rebukes. Still, with each new find, Doyle radiates a genuine pleasure and interest. He peers at her bedside, reading a pile of magazine-type comics in black and white.

I’d love to borrow some of these, he says as he hastens over to a wall unit, opens the cabinet doors, and unearths colossal stacks of comics.

Stacey has almost every issue of Vampirella. Her collection also includes Eerie, Creepy, Nightmare, Psycho, and Scream. She occasionally departs from the horror genre for comics depicting a fantasy world of the long-distant past. Her favorite sword-and-sorcery hero is Conan the Barbarian, hero of the Savage Sword of Conan.

The extent of her hobby belies Stacey’s disparaging remark: I’m so glutted with reading at work, comics give me a nice light change of pace. Then she says abruptly, Enough inspecting of my apartment. Last night, you told me about an intriguing kind of yoga. Come tell me more.

As she sits in an armchair watching Doyle, Stacey absentmindedly places a pad on her lap and draws with a felt-tip pen. Her hand sketches a figure unerringly with brisk and incisive strokes. She looks at what she is doing only out of the periphery of her vision. Doyle strides over to her and gazes down at the drawing.

She responds teasingly, You were thinking that I was trying to capture that handsome, naked body of yours on paper? Can you find the resemblance?

She flashes at him both the sketch and a provocative grin. Her drawing is that of a gremlin wearing nothing but the absurdly high conical hat of a wizard.

Ah, now my pen and paper will catch you as a leprechaun! she exclaims mischievously. And as you well know, if you’re familiar with the ancient laws, when caught, you must reveal to me the hiding place of treasure. She flips over the page and begins a new sketch. Now, Doyle, she chides him, whoever heard of a leprechaun with such a solemn expression?

I’ve never known anybody so fond of mythological creatures—gnomes, goblins, sylphs, elves, fauns, satyrs, and dragons.

When you weren’t snooping through my kitchen, you were poking through my sketchbook? she challenges him, but this time, without rancor.

"I had no idea until this moment that you also draw as a hobby. You have such talent. It should be more