Blue Moon

         It must have been easier for witches in the old days, Molly mused as she walked, you could have really been someone back then. Respect would have meant something. If people had a problem they'd have got personal service. Not a telephone helpline that assures you that 'your call is important to us' for hours on end. Or a government department hog-tied in red-tape and bureaucracy but still eager to persuade you that it's doing all it can for your benefit. Seems these days people put more effort into trying to convince you they're helping than actually doing so. Molly supposed it was the public's fault as much as anything. Too many people expected help for their problems without a price; whether they're in poverty, their top-of-the-range PC's buggered up, their home's flooded or they're heartbroken after discovering that 'Romeo' actually just wanted a quick shag. Molly knew that she wanted to help people. She knew all about prices as well.
         Molly was walking up the pavement alongside Etruria Road, a five-lane monstrosity that was usually busy even at this time of night but was now almost silent. To her left was an overgrown slope covered in weeds and bracken that led down past a spiked fence to a lorry repair station. To her right, over the road, was a timber merchants and the entrance to Festival Park; a giant industrial slag-heap of factories, warehouses and typing pools. The only light to betray these came from the Full-Moon which shone majestically down with little competition as all the lamp posts within a half mile radius of Molly flickered and died when she moved towards them. This was nice she thought. The night to herself as it should be. All she wanted was one night every cycle of the Moon to be kept sacred. Wouldn't this be good for everyone? A rare chance to escape the rat-race, to embrace nature, to be at one with the night.
         This hadn't gone far enough. Molly looked and could still see hundreds of streetlights in the far distance. Then a car passed her by! Its headlights had died along with the streetlights but it still must have going at over fifty. Molly glared at it as it powered off into the night. She felt a sense of rage surge through her body like electricity through a mains but she managed to control herself. There's only so much you can achieve through rumour and word of mouth, she pondered, having forced herself to return to her previous relaxed, philosophical state. Of course there will always be some people prepared to ignore the unfortunate surge in accidents this city has experienced during recent Full-Moons, or put them down to chance. That would all change tonight. This was the only thought really able to keep Molly calm. It was a Blue Moon tonight; the second Full-Moon of the month and she had something very special planned to mark the occasion.
         Molly was heading towards the Queen's Gardens in the market town of Newcastle; a small, fussily maintained garden adorned with a statue of Queen Victoria and plots of bright, vividly coloured flowers, planted by a small army of council workers. It was, Molly considered, a place of power and beauty and, therefore, the perfect theatre for what she had in mind. She'd set off from her flat in Hanley (the commercial centre of Stoke- a city that had all but swallowed Newcastle whole) just over forty minutes ago and was over halfway to her destination. She'd lived in the flat for under a year and it cost her a whole £100 a month in bills and taxes. The landlord was a gentleman, however and, after some firm but fair negotiation had let her live rent-free. This is the curse of the modern world, she thought, if you can have a nice, face-to-face chat with a real person then they will show you respect for your helpful and considerate nature. If you end up communicating with an uncaring bureaucracy via words on a computer or some faceless cunt on a telephone you get treated like cattle. No respect, no humanity, just a load of fucking bills and threatening letters. She never had any trouble getting the money when it was needed but she shouldn't have to.
         Before renting the flat, she'd lived with her great-aunt Susan for most of her life. Her parents had left, or died when she was about five. She didn't know which and Susan was always vague about the subject. Not that it mattered either way, really. Susan was a witch too, who specialised in herbs. From the terraced shit-tip that Molly had known as home for so long, Susan flogged cures for everything from bad breath or an itchy scalp to acute fever or chronic breathing difficulties. She always sold far too cheaply and the only things that kept them in food were Susan's sex potions. There's really nothing like watching your elderly aunt sell things to help people get up and go/slow down completely/improve fertility/halt fertility to put a girl off sex for life and Molly shuddered at the memories. Susan had been a weak woman really. It had been pathetic watching her slog her guts out on these things and making a pittance while companies who advertised in the newspapers or online would rake in the cash even if they were just selling coloured rose water. The real tragedy was that Susan was a powerful witch but she was just too nice. As a result she got trounced by the competition who sold lies in a bottle with the illusionary magic of advertising- all it took was a pretty model dressed in black and given some pretentious name like Priscilla to spout some quasi-scientific bullshit and you were there. It wouldn't even matter if the dumb, whore model wouldn't know what an 'aphrodisiac' was if one came and bit her on the arse. When Susan died just over a year ago- (a heart-attack, again, not that Molly really cared, despite all the inconvenience afterwards) Molly vowed that this would all change. She would take on the magic of lies and everything that went with it in a manner that Susan had been too cowardly to do so.
         Molly continued to trample over the concrete pavement in her tough, black boots. She was dressed for practicality above all else, with jeans and a warm jumper. In a nod to tradition these items were in black too. She had briefly thought about dying her long, dully brown hair but had decided against it; there was no point in bothering too much with appearances. If she wanted people to know she was a witch it would be no problem, and she never bothered to even try to look attractive. If she wanted a man, she could get him as easily as she could clap her hands. Not that she ever intended to. All men are selfish bastards who inflate their egos through their dicks without giving a shit for anyone else. Of course, this evened out as (almost) all women are whores; eager to sell everything once they think they've got the best price can.
         Tonight was about helping people though. Molly calmed herself down with this thought, as the road bridged itself over the railway tracks and led up to the huge roundabout interchange that ramped down to the vast D-road which snaked through the city and linked to the motorway junction several miles away;The whole world has veins, she thought; roads, trainlines, phonelines and they all pump the blood of a sick monster and reduce peoples' importance to the level of germs, or blood cells. No matter how big the monster, though, it would only take one act of will to bring it to its knees. She would be the cell that turned cancerous, she would be the unstoppable, ever-replicating HIV virus. A number of blackened cars passed along the D-road beneath but Molly was now too single-minded to be bothered by them. She crossed the two roads of the on and off ramp, the traffic lights useless in the face of her anger-fuelled magic, and headed into mile-long King Street towards Newcastle centre. It was getting close now.
         The 'Full-Moon accidents' had started almost as soon as Molly had moved to Hanley. The first had generally been regarded as an unfortunate tragedy; a bus had crashed into an elderly couple's living room in Burslem. The driver and the luckless gentleman indoors watching telly had been killed instantly. There were a few serious injuries to the passengers but the papers took the angle that it was miraculous there weren't more casualties and that the man's wife was safely in bed at the time. Much was made of the bizarre, temporary power failure that not only killed the streetlights but all nearby headlights as well and the electricity company strenuously tried to convince people that they weren't the ones responsible for the crash. It was only Molly who knew that the driver wasn't the one controlling his vehicle in the seconds before his death.
         The second accident provoked more media interest and conspiracy theories;a petrol station in Clayton had mysteriously gone up in flames roasting the two men working inside and a woman who'd only pulled up in the forecourt a few seconds beforehand. The flame had somehow spread across the road to the pub. Although most people there had seen it coming and managed to evacuate, five people didn't. Upon investigation; three were deemed too drunk, one was in the toilets and one was a disabled man whom no one offered assistance to. What the investigation failed to work out was how the fire started, how the flames got across the road with no apparent petrol spillage, and why all the lights had died only a quarter of an hour previously.
         Although the papers and TV had been full of crackpot theories to explain the curious, localised blackouts (electromagnetism had been the main buzzword although no-one could follow up on this with any real conviction), it was only after the third incident that the media realised these were happening on Full-Moon nights.
         The third and final (so far) major incident happened at a Newcastle nightclub during a rainstorm. According to one survivor's account, the upstairs dance floor's roof had been leaking steadily for hours and after a while the clubbers were splashing water as they danced. When the electricity cut off suddenly and they were left in silence and pitch darkness, everyone got nervous, mindful of the previous events and most headed down the narrow staircase as quickly as possible. The ones who remained upstairs were soon greeted with a brief flicker of light as the electricity made a fleeting return appearance. An appearance just long enough to cause a power surge which, for reasons unknown (to most people), the fuse of just one piece of equipment, failed to react to. Seven people fried to death. This would have been a backward step for Molly had it not been for the overall panic, the screaming and the general confusion as a hundred or so people tried to escape in darkness. Five further people were crushed to death on the narrow staircase and dozens more were injured; a few of these were to die of their wounds.
         For Molly, the crowning glory of this event had been seeing the newspapers the following morning. All of them had almost identical pictures on their front pages; a squadron of ambulances fleeting away the dead and wounded, in front of a dark nightclub beneath a magnificent Full-Moon. After this, she hardly had to do anything. The seeds had been planted into peoples' minds and Full-Moon nights became unlucky to be about on business, or pleasure because, well, people were shit-scared and created their own accidents, Molly supposed. Just like some superstitious nutjob who's broken a mirror will panic and become less confident and more accident-prone, anyone out in this city during a Full-Moon could turn into a bundle of nerves and the media went into a frenzy over every single car-crash or even men falling down the stairs and breaking their arm. Of course, Molly's tendency to go walking during these nights and switching off the lights probably helped, she thought with more than a hint of satisfaction.
         Having crossed the interchange, it was downhill all the way now. King Street was smaller than Etruria Road and was host to a number of pubs, small offices and houses. There were no cars but, about two hundred yards in front of her, Molly could spot a group of kids hanging out in the dark outside the Asian corner shop. Another good thing about the old days she thought through barely controlled anger, no fucking Paki's everywhere. She strode on with renewed vigour and as she pounded her boots over the pavement her mind turned to the people she was actually looking forward to seeing tonight.
         The initial Full-Moon seeds had been sown and the benefits were starting to be reaped already. Over the last few weeks Molly had been getting audiences with the mayor and the city councillors and explaining her suggestions to make the city a better place for everyone. They'd listened with interest and respect. Much in the same way her landlord had done when offering her a deserved 100% discount. It troubled Molly that some people had to be threatened to reach such a level of enlightenment. If you were Joe Bloggs and had some good suggestions you got laughed out of the building but if you had the same suggestions after killing several dozen people and being easily capable of doing so again people would find the time to reach a good decision. Molly was fully aware that the mayor and the council were responsible for the violence. They had the blood of twenty five people on their hands because of their stupid, intractable little minds. Besides, Molly had some good suggestions; no electricity, water or gas to run, or flow on Full-Moon nights. No traffic on the roads or shops open either. The Moon would be sacred and everyone would be a lot happier. Anyway, it would just be like Sundays in the times when people actually gave a shit about god. The only difference being that no-one knows where god's fucked off to. Molly's here.
And she's angry.
         Molly got nearer the gang and could already see the shape of their minds and the thoughts in their heads. All of the five lads turned their faces (white-skinned, now she could see clearly) towards her. Their thoughts were full of the usual macho, bravado of boys who are drinking in the street and don't care who knows it. Molly detected a few signs of unease and the sad disguise of toughness and swagger that they used to conceal this. Who would be first to comment, she wondered. Would they ask her to get her quite well-concealed 'tits out'? Would they make some snide remark about her gothic, dress sense and then all guffaw like the sheep they are? As she got within a few yards of them, looking the tracksuited knobheads in the eye she saw that no-one was even daring to be the first to speak. Molly grinned and saw the boys getting even more uncomfortable. So she'd been invited to make the first move, it appeared. In an instant, Molly sent out a mental--shockwave to the group that knocked two of the boys straight off their feet. The rest fled instantly, almost squealing as they went. Molly stood still for a few seconds to give the fallen boys a chance to flee. After all, tonight was not about violence or petty conflict. Tonight was about justice.
         Molly walked past the shop, past the church, past several pubs and soon she was just over the road from the Queen's Gardens. In the darkness she saw a crowd of about two hundred people, more than she'd expected and enough to half fill the small area. Two hundred mouths fell into a hush and two hundred pairs of eyes turned to regard her. Molly paused to savour the moment for a while. From here the crowd looked like dark ghosts, penned in behind the black iron fence. She searched out their thoughts and found a mixture of fear and anticipation. That wasn't all though, an occasional beacon of amusement stood out; the voyeurism of people looking forward to an entertaining show. It wasn't just the mayor and councillors who were here tonight. People whose presence she hadn't demanded had shown up too. Maybe she should have brought some popcorn, Molly thought, and laughed to herself. Feeling that the anticipation was as great as it was ever going to get, Molly crossed the road and entered the garden.
         As soon as she entered, there was a cacophony of shouting and fevered speech. Angry and confused bodies surrounded Molly and found themselves being flung off their feet if they got too close. Without a word, Molly walked past the statue of Queen Victoria and towards the former bandstand in the corner, just in front of school gates to one side and a chain-pub to the other. It was now only a pillared, black iron shelter but it was a focal point and it would do. As soon as Molly reached it, she turned around and, with one wave of the her arm, the garden was silent - all the sound being sucked away to nothingness. With a wave of her other arm, the nearby lamp posts turned themselves on again creating an eerie oasis of light through which the overhead Moon was still clearly visible. It was time to end the intrigue and conspiracy theories, Molly had decided. Tonight the electricity would run, the CCTV would capture everything, the camera phones of the ghouls in the crowd would work. No more hiding, no more doubt or wild speculation. This time everyone would have proof. The crowd stood a respectable ten yards back from Molly who spoke,
"Ladies and gentleman, thank you for showing up tonight." her improvised showmanship amused her greatly,
"My name's Molly, your friend and humble servant and I am here to rid you all of the terrible plague of accidents that this city has been suffering from in this past year." there was a handful of confused clapping from some of the crowd's less intelligent members,
"You will be pleased to know that the mayor and your councillors have personally pledged me their full support in my efforts,"
there's one mind here that doesn't fit, she realised, nothing to worry about,
"However, as members of the public, you have responsibilities too. As I was walking here, I saw cars drive past, kids drinking in the streets and streetlights left on. This will not happen when the Moon is Full. Do you understand?"
A death-rattle of 'yes's came from the now (just about) audible crowd,
"Good. Because this is for your benefit not mine."
There was a man on the roof behind her, she suddenly realised. a man who was more afraid than most but one who had duty etched on his mind. A sniper.
"I'm afraid there will be one last incident of unpleasantness before we can begin to taste freedom."
"Hold on a minute!" the mayor, a fat, old man shouted from the front of the crowd. He raised his arm in expectation and a loud bang came from behind Molly and then a thud and the crowd groaned. Without even turning round, Molly knew that the sniper had been too late. Once she had realised he was there, he had no chance, and the mayor's none-too-subtle signalling had only led to him taking his own life. Molly was furious with the mayor but knew that better was to come and she could annoy him more by getting on with her speech as if she hadn't been only a few seconds away from an unexpected death. She continued,
"I don't know whether you're all familiar with the mythical Greek creature of the Minotaur",
Molly knew that all the councillors were, in fact it would be engraved on their hearts until they died,
"he was a vicious beast born as a punishment from the gods for the decadence of the ancient Greeks. The only way to sate the monster was to feed him with Athenians. These unfortunates were chosen by lottery.
"While the Minotaur demanded fourteen victims every seven years, I demand only one but I demand him now. I believe the mayor will present him. And I hope you have no more little stunts planned." She said, while unleashing a huge grin.
         After some hurried discussion amongst a large section of the crowd, David was bundled forward. David was a pudgy five year old boy with freckles and curly hair. He was a councillor's son and the result of several weeks of ferocious debate amongst the mayor and the council. He was also Molly's final piece of the jigsaw. Her ultimatum had been very clear; give me one of your children or I will take all of them. Molly didn't think his parents were in the crowd tonight, none of the thoughts she could feel quite added up to that. She guessed that they'd been heavily sedated, almost certainly against their will. It was beautiful, really, once people realise what you're capable of, they'll do your dirty work for you. She didn't know if there even had been a lottery or whether they'd all just ganged up on the weakest or most disliked. Not that it mattered.
         As the boy was presented to her Molly glanced briefly behind her and saw the sniper's body. It wasn't even a police sniper; just a guy wearing black with an old rifle and a hole in his head. She realised what must have happened, no one could get authorisation for a marksman to come down from Manchester or somewhere. How do you like your red-tape now, she thought, barely able to control herself from laughing out loud. Regaining composure, she turned to receive another item from the mayor; a ceremonial dagger. It dated back to Boer War and had spent the last century in a display case in the civic buildings.
         Molly grabbed the boy and put him in a state of mild-hypnosis. She would fully concentrate on the job in hand now. Camera phones and security cameras were watching her every move. Good. She was going to get the one thing she wanted, witnesses. Millions of them by tomorrow when this will have been shown on every news bulletin, in every paper. Jesus may have brought a dead man back to life but if it wasn't for the gospel writers no one would even know about it. She was embarking on a similar act of goodness tonight and there'd be plenty of people to spread her gospel. Molly held the boy in front of her with her left arm and the dagger in her right hand. There's a time and a place for witchcraft but this was where real magic was needed; the magic that proves a whole city will do whatever you ask it to and even help you with it.
         Molly drew her finger against the blade. It was rusty and all the sharper for it. The crowd was as silent as they had been under Molly's spell. Then Molly brought her right hand up to the boy's face and pierced the side of his neck. The crowd snapped into life and began screaming, some of them tried to rush Molly but found themselves being flung backwards as if they'd hit a forcefield. Molly drew the blade across slowly. An impossible amount of blood spurted out and ran onto the floor and the cut was so deep that she had to laboriously tear through thick muscle and only adjusted when she reached the bone of the spine. His voicebox and all the cords tubes he needed to eat, drink and breathe were gradually dragged out as the tip of the dagger still scraped against bone. Molly barely even noticed the screams as she finished her task. All she could think about was how far this would all spread and how many more people would find their life improved through proper respect of nature. She wondered how many more witches were out there and whether they'd pick up on this message. Sometimes all you could do is plant seeds and hope they take root.
         As instantly as they came on, the lights turned off again. The boy's dead body slumped onto the ground and Molly disappeared, for now, into the Moon basked-night.

         *           *           *

         So there you have it, dear reader. It seems that one of my seeds has been sown via ink and paper or a computer and modem and been planted directly into your brain. I hope for your sake that it takes root. Don't judge me too harshly for my actions, after all, if I hadn't had the will to do what's right, you wouldn't be reading this now, would you?
It is very important that you learn a lesson from this; always keep Full-Moon nights sacred. And if you don't, I know where you live, I can read your thoughts and now you have no excuse to ignore me. And remember this, the final thing, above all else- I'm here to help you.