Embedded Files
WITCHERY
by
Harold C Holt
There should have been a lot more pain. He felt a constant stinging sensation but nothing beyond that. Adrenaline, he told himself, coupled with his increasingly frantic state of mind was shielding him from realizing the full agony he knew he probably deserved. The bristles designed to exfoliate were surely scraping away his skin, as evidenced by the bloody water swirling around his feet as it circled the drain and was washed away, evoking colorless images of the shower scene from the movie Psycho—which was the last thing Jamal Levan needed running through his mind at that dire moment.
This was insanity! No matter how hard he scrubbed himself, it wouldn't come off. He gave up thinking he could scrub it off and settled on the idea of disfiguring or mangling it enough to make it unrecognizable; then his only problem would be coming up with a big enough lie to explain the unattractive, twisted patch of flesh to anyone who saw it, to explain it to Sharisse Ramsey—his girlfriend of four years, a woman he had promised to marry, though he had yet to get her a ring. Jamal certainly wasn't the first man to cheat on his significant other, but he felt like he was paying for the sins of every man in existence who'd ever done it.
Tashay was the proprietor of Magic Sweets, a new confectionery shop on Chicago's south side located in Chatham's main strip mall. A vivacious bronze beauty from Barbados, she'd commanded Jamal's attention upon first sight. Both Jamal and his girlfriend Sharisse shared an appreciation for rich chocolate candy, so he'd patronized Magic Sweets with the intention of surprising Sharisse later that night with some enchanting edibles. He left there that day with two sweet treats: a small box of chocolate eggs and Tashay's phone number.
There was something a little off about Tashay, something bold and unconventional that Jamal found alluring. In fact, there was an energy that gripped him the moment he entered her shop that first time. He assumed it was animal magnetism at play as he could not take his eyes off her. She'd offered him chocolate samples and partook of them herself in a very lascivious manner—clearly a flirtation, and Jamal told himself that only a tweedle-dumbass would pass up free pizza.
Jamal returned a couple days later, only to learn that Tashay lived at her sweets shop, or at least she had a back room with a bed and a small shower area. Perfect, better than worrying about checking into a motel as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. It didn't take them long to start kissing. Jamal noticed that even Tashay's tongue tasted like candy. That led to animal sex, sweaty jungle sex, 90s porno movie sex with Janet Jacme, Dominique Simone and Persia all in one mind-numbing, bed-breaking session.
Afterward, Jamal lay nearly comatose wondering if he'd been drugged by the chocolate liqueur they'd shared beforehand or if Tashay had shape-shifted into his favorite porn stars during sex. He glanced at his phone and realized it was later than he thought, so he popped into her bathroom to shower, and that's when he saw it in the mirror. At the base of his neck, just above his back, positioned between his shoulders, there was maroon body paint, a tattoo that spelled out T-A-S-H-A-Y. The crazy witch had tattooed her name on him while he was knocked out. He got in the shower, turned it so that scalding hot water rained down upon him, grabbed her back scrubber and tried as hard as he could to rid himself of the humiliating brand, all to no avail. And all the while, he heard Tashay in the bedroom laughing hysterically, maniacally.
Jamal threw on his pants and slipped into his shirt without even bothering to button it. He demanded that Tashay show him the way out, but all she did was lean back against her pillows, still naked, laughing like a madwoman. And the entire time, her face was in a constant state of morphing from one beautiful vision into another. The skin tone of her face even lightened with some of the transformations while the rest of her body remained darkened. She was baiting him, mocking him, showing that she owned him. That's what witches did, and he'd fallen right into the trap. He may as well have fallen in with a demon or the devil himself, for all his impotence against the situation. He darted around the sizable backroom like a fly until he finally noticed another door very near to the door through which they'd entered the backroom. He tried the lock; thankfully, it opened. It was a side exit leading to the parking lot. His car was out there, near the front.
Jamal sprinted toward his vehicle with alacrity. It was after 9pm. He left the mall and headed south on Cottage Grove Avenue. While driving, he told his car's AI system, “Alexa, call Demetrius Zane.”
Jamal had met Demetrius at Roosevelt University nearly 15 years earlier. Both were smooth womanizers back then, so they became fast friends. But now Demetrius was married. Jamal knew that Sharisse was marriage-minded, and he knew that if he wasn't, he would most likely lose her. As it was, he might lose her anyway unless he could figure out how to get rid of the stupid tattoo at the base of his neck. He quickly related his dilemma to Demetrius, who couldn't help chuckling.
“Bro, this ain't even funny,” Jamal protested.
“My bad, J. But damn, you been up on game out here for a minute, bruh! You telling me you ain't learned how to recognize psycho-booty comin' atchu a mile away?”
“She's a lil' more than that, D. Look, I just need time to think. Everything's moving too fast right now. I can't go home to Sharisse yet. I just need to sit and chill for a minute and make a plan, you know?”
“Where you at right now?” Demetrius asked.
“Going south on Cottage Grove.”
“OK, that's perfect. Remember that barbershop my wife's pops used to own before he died?”
“The one on 94th and Cottage? Yeah, I went there with you a couple times after you put me up on it. At the time, I didn't know he was somebody to you though. I thought y'all closed that place and sold it.”
“Yeah, that was the plan, but she ain't ready to sell it yet. She using it as a tax write-off for her own business. But peep this: it's a loose brick over the door in back by the alley. We keep an extra key there. I used to go in there with some of my crew from work and play Spades all night. Sofa, chairs and tables in the back. You can chill there for a minute if you want.”
Jamal nodded his head. “Yeah, that sounds cool. Hey, any barber tools still in there?”
“Probably. I don't think she ever cleaned out any of her pops' stuff.”
“Perfect! I'm like a block away from there now. Thanks, D! I definitely owe you one.”
“You sure do, Blackman, and I'm definitely gonna collect my 40 acres from you when the time comes. Good luck with your problem bro. And hey, moving forward, maybe you need to seriously think about puttin' a ring on it, you feel me?”
“Trust me, that's sounding better and better to me every minute. I'll get back with you, man.”
Jamal had arrived at the storefront barbershop. The structure was closed, desolate and partially boarded up. After parking, Jamal walked around back to the alley entrance where he saw a couple black city-issue garbage bins. He tipped one onto its side and stood on top of it to reach the bricks over the rear door. He carefully fiddled with one brick after another until he discovered the loose one, extracted it and found the key, just as Demetrius had described. He went inside and locked the door behind him. Using his phone as a flashlight, Jamal carefully made his way through the shady areas that served as a bathroom, a larger room with tables and chairs, and an even larger space presumably for storage. Sure enough, there was a small stack of unopened rolls of paper towels and toilet paper adorned by cobwebs. He went through a door that led to the barber area up front. None of the interior light switches worked, but the streetlamps outside provided light... Not enough to dispel all shadows, but enough to let him look around at what was on the dusty counter behind the two rotating metal barber chairs.
Jamal went through the drawers and found a couple candles and a book of matches. He placed the candles on either side of one of the counter mirrors and lit them both. Next, he lowered his navy blue Cuban collar and turned until he could see the base of his neck in the mirror. There was Tashay's name, still bold and fresh upon his skin. As Jamal rubbed his fingertips across it, he didn't experience the slightest sting nor any kind of soreness. That struck him as odd because all the rigorous scrubbing he'd done should have left his skin tender and sensitive to the touch, if nothing else. It was indeed witchcraft, which meant the paint would not just simply wash off. Jamal realized if he wanted it off, he'd have to do something more drastic.
On the countertops, he discovered a couple small razor blades for the electric clippers and a straight razor that was maybe six or seven inches long. Further searching turned up a bottle of turpentine oil and another bottle half-filled with rubbing alcohol, both highly flammable. Jamal's options were clear. He could not go home to Sharisse with another woman's name on his neck, and he couldn't use any clippers since the electricity wasn't working there. He would either have to use the razors to slice and peel away the top layer of skin—and that's assuming he could even do it steadly while using the mirrors and reaching around behind him. The more he thought about trying it, the more he doubted whether he could do it. His other option, actually the more simple option, would be to use a paper towel to dap splotches of turpentine or rubbing alcohol across the base of his neck, then use one of the lit candles to ignite it and burn Tashay's name away. Neither option was ideal, but Jamal decided he'd rather try explaining burnt flesh than a tattoo of another woman's name.
Jamal's phone pinged; it was a text from Sharisse. He ignored it and grabbed some paper towels from the hanging roll over the counter. After folding them over and over into a neat compact square, Jamal grabbed the turpentine, opened it, and poured some into the counter sink. Just as he expected, the oil on top was thick and black, but it only took a few seconds for oil that was not as congealed or as inky to come out. He soaked the paper towel square in it then dapped it across the base of his neck, applying a solid coat to the painted area. He tore off another paper towel, rolled it into a shape like a cigar, stuck one end into the candle flame and then—with a trembling hand—touched the flaming end against the oil-coated area at the base of his neck.
He expected pain that would make him scream. What he felt was an unpleasant but mild stinging sensation similar to what he'd felt earlier in Tashay's bathroom when he'd vigorously tried to scrub the paint away. He looked at his side profile in the mirror, twisting his head enough to clearly see the shimmering flames burning the back of his neck. The unpleasant odor of burnt turpentine assailed his senses. He was definitely on fire, and he couldn't understand why he wasn't in more pain. He kept watching himself in the mirror and noticed the flames dying down as if something was smothering them. This continued until the flames were completely out. There was still discomfort as the base of his neck appeared blackened for a moment with no trace of Tashay's name. Then miraculously, the burnt surface hardened and crackled away, allowing skin that was closer to Jamal's natural hue to emerge smooth and unscathed. And with the newer, smoother skin, Tashay's name returned, soon appearing as freshly-painted as it had ever looked.
More witchcraft, Jamal realized. No wonder he experienced little pain. The magic that preserved Tashay's name also kept his skin from being harmed. It magically regenerated, sparing him any pain. In no time at all, he was right back where he'd started, and he was more frustrated than ever. He grabbed the straight razor and reached back over his head, chopping into the base of his neck, spilling blood. Again, all he felt was a mildly unpleasant stinging sensation. He quickly removed his shirt and noticed the blood staining and soaking into the back of it. However, his reflection showed his marred skin shifting and healing with Tashay's name quickly regaining its bold visible presence.
“No, No, No! COME ON!” Jamal shouted. He felt himself in the grip of rage brought on by frustration, impotence, and maybe just a touch of self-hatred. This went way beyond thinking with the little head instead of the big one. How could he have sacrificed the wholesome relationship he had for a side quickie with a wicked-ass witch?
“Ja-maallll!” a woman's voice called out.
It was Sharisse! Had he somehow pocket-dialed her? He looked at his phone, and it hadn't even been on. Her voice wasn't coming from there. As he tucked it back into his pocket, he heard it again: “Jamal! I'm in the back!”
What the hell was she doing out back? And how did she even know about this place? He didn't recall ever mentioning it to her. As he walked toward the back entrance, he wondered if she knew about his infidelity. Had she gone through his phone at some point and maybe found Tashay's number? No, they had rules about each other's personal privacy. Phones were mutually off-limits.
Jamal opened the back door and found no one outside.
“I'm right here, Jamal!” Sharisse's voice announced.
Jamal closed the door and looked around, seeing nothing but darkness and shadows.
“Sharisse, are you here?” Jamal hesitantly asked.
“Yes,” was the response.
“Well where are you? How'd you get here?”
“I'm up front,” she said.
This can't be happening, Jamal thought. He made his way toward the front, realizing it had to be Tashay. He was out cold long enough for her to tattoo the back of his neck; what else had she done while he was unconscious? Maybe she went through his phone, found Sharisse's number and told her everything. But how would Tashay have known about the barbershop? Then again, how could she not have known? She was a witch, after all. Nothing remained a secret if a witch wanted to know bad enough.
Jamal returned to the barber area up front just in time to see Sharisse in the mirror. His heart raced as if powered by a turbine. He approached the mirror only to see his own reflection; she was nowhere in sight.
He looked around frantically and shouted, “Sharisse! What's going on? Are you really here?”
“I'm here,” she said.
“Well where the hell are you?”
“I'm right under your skin.”
A shuddering bolt of horrendous pain ripped through every fiber of Jamal's mortal coil like lightning, except it didn't pass after a few seconds; it lingered like a biblical plague. Jamal cried as if his spine was being ripped out through the top of his back. His body convulsed as his bladder let go. A bloody slit appeared at the base of his neck and savagely widened as a human hand reached out followed by an arm. Jamal hit the floor face-first as his back tore itself open right down the center. The overwhelming physical trauma couldn't be helped; Sharisse had to come out. Jamal was under a witch's spell and wouldn't answer his phone, so Sharisse had to appear on the scene. A dramatic course correction was in order.
Jamal woke up slouching in one of the barber chairs. His blue Cuban collar shirt had been draped around his shoulders like a cape. He felt exhausted and yet energetic at the same time, like a jogger having completed several laps. Instinctively, he reached back and rubbed the base of his neck; there was no pain. What the hell, had he dreamed it all?
“You snore when you're well-rested,” Sharisse declared, her voice snapping Jamal to attention.
Sharisse stepped out of the shadows wearing a pink wide leg and wide collar two-piece pant suit that fell comfortably around her medium-sized frame. She was golden-skinned with a head of dark box braids pinned in a top knot. She approached Jamal with a small handheld mirror, turned his barber chair to position him so that the back of his neck was reflected in the mirror on the counter behind him and, in turn, reflected in her handheld mirror, allowing him to see that Tashay's name was no longer on the back of his neck. Jamal took the mirror from her hand and continued to stare at it with profound fascination.
“All couples have to work their issues out,” Sharisse noted. “This was our first problem, or at least the first I learned of.”
Jamal was about to speak, but Sharisse raised her hand and stopped him. She continued, “I felt a shift in nature when you fell under that other witch's spell, but my craft was way stronger than hers once I triangulated her flow of energy. I never told you, but I'm a descendant of Tituba, understand? And Tituba was a descendant of the very first prophetic seer who warned African tribes that foreigners with flesh like raw meat would arrive in boats and destroy their lives by dragging everyone off to hell in chains. So craft has been a part of my family's birthright forever. Think about that, Jamal, the next time you fancy entertaining an appetite for someone else, okay?”
Having thrown down the flex to trump all flexes, Sharisse extended her hand. Jamal smiled weakly and put his hand in hers, allowing her to help him out of the chair and to his feet. As they walked hand-in-hand through the dark rooms in the back, Jamal felt her hand shifting oddly around his, as if she were changing. He thought about the old saying happy wife, happy life.
He hoped and prayed that was true.
Copyright (c) by Harold C. Holt, 2026
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse