. WITCHGROUPIE .

She stood breathless as the black bird moved, only breathing again once he spoke. The few words she received were cryptic and vague. She didn’t like it, not at all. But then again she was getting a taste of her own special blend of medicine. “I’m not getting it.” She wasn’t getting him either, but that was a work in progress. She took in a deep breath and listened to the wailing in her ears. “He’s scared of you.” And she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t, but that wasn’t to be verbalised unless she was given reason. “What relation do you and him have to these people? Were they a couple or something? What do his boots have to do with any of this?” She felt like she was grabbing at strings while trying to fish for some level of context, simply because she didn’t want to say the wrong thing and lose the only lead ( if one would even call him that ) she had. 

            Painted brows raise in a sardonic arch, he didn’t expect her to get it. Still, her confession is a letdown. “His convictions weren’t strong enough to cut through the bones of his sins.” Eric said, in a dark, poetic riddle of carnage and vengeance. His own boots beginning to approach her. Secret satisfaction found in her reassurance. Tom Tom was afraid of him, even in death. Good. ⊰ ATTABOY! ⊱ the bird cheered in loud, sharp cawing – fluttering its wings in celebration. “He had cold feet.” the dead man said, teeth exposed in a short-lived nasty grin. Appearing villainous one moment, returning to normalcy the next. Her questions, bombarding painful memories and visceral acts of violence he needn’t speak of. Eric backed away, and gave her room. “Those are really good questions, Miss Eriks.” a pause, “Why don’t you ask him?”