One should never mix spells with potions. Every witch knew this. Yet, she had done it anyway.

She moved to her cauldron, her limbs hindering her with their lack of bones and suckers. One tentacle wrapped around a vial getting it halfway to the cauldron before it shattered. She sighed, a wet sound coming from a beak hidden by a bulbous head. She turned and headed to the cupboard, longing for a large body of water.

If she didn’t get this potion finished and her body back before her sisters got home she would never hear the end of it.

Author’s Note: My son loves horror stories, particularly those stories that have witches who make mistakes and all the hoopla they have to do to get out of trouble.

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It wasn’t the dark that was scary. Oh, no. It was the shadows, which need light to exist, that were scary. People often get that wrong. Not Maddy, though.

“Wouldn’t you like a night light?” Her worried parents would ask, particularly after some other child was on the news for being snatched by the monster under the bed.

Piffle, Maddy would say.

In fact, Maddy was quite friendly with her monster. Along with Teddy, they had successfully beaten back the shadows for five nights running. If they could just keep the stupid night light out they might actually survive. Probably.

Author’s Note: Parents often discount a child’s fear as nonsense, but they discount their strengths even more. I have often thought that parents should pay more attention to the seemingly nonsensical things that children say.

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Sometimes her day job was not as much fun as she had previously been led to believe. She swung her scythe, harvesting another soul, number forty-seven. This one was a real asshole. She could tell.

“What the hell?” He turned on her angrily, or at least his soul did. The body pretty much stayed where it was underneath a now shrieking hooker. Poor thing was going to be traumatized.

“You’re dead.”

“I can’t be! I’m blah-blah…” she stopped listening.

He started cursing the same time he started fading. Not her job to know what happened next. God, she hated Mondays.

Author’s Note: Stories about death are often cliché, and somewhat emo. I like to write them a little tongue in cheek.

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