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Episode 4 – Morag Black 

 December 9, 2020

By  Christopher David Roberts

Note: If you are new to Logical Monkey, I recommend starting at episode 1 to get the best out of the story.

I've provided an audio version below for those that would prefer to listen ...

The dark witch, Morag Black, is standing in Mel Square. Her hooked nose is only inches from the window of The Daily Grind. On the other side of the glass, Timothy Tittleworth has just noticed the psychopath who is standing in the Square having a staring contest with a pigeon. He gazes out through the window, lost in thought, not seeing the grotesque apparition only inches from his face. It’s as if she isn’t really there at all. Indeed, no one sees her. People are going about their business, sometimes mere inches from her, but none are aware save for an uncontrolled shudder as they pass by.

Morag Black’s skin is viridescent and its age has given it the texture of an avocado. Heavy black bags hang below her venomous eyes, which are coal-black, ringed with white and red. Thick black brows angle down towards the top of her nose, giving her an angry and spiteful expression. The corners of her poisonous mouth, the thin lips of which are tinged with green, are turned downwards. A putrid mole, with thick black hairs sprouting out of it, has taken up position on her generous chin. Greasy, jet-black hair hangs down either side of her face like rotting stage curtains.

She utters continuously in the syllables of a dead language, as she stares straight into Tittleworth’s unseeing eyes. The words coming out of her mouth are full of malice as she wills him to open his mind to her evil. To a concept. To a theory that will lead him to give birth to great evil in her name: “Audite me. Audi verba mea. Animalis est. Animalis est. Chao. LICENTIA. Mors. Mors! LICENTIA. Animalis est. Audi verba mea!”

The witch is wreathed in darkness, cloaked in black and hooded. Not with any physical material, such as cotton, but with a vaporous darkness or essence, for she is yet to regain physical form. This vaporous shadow swirls close about her. It creeps over the pavement around her feet and gropes its way along the glass of the window with thin tendrils. This creeping shadow is Morag Black. She is dark energy. Chaotic will and an unholy measure of anger and the desire for vengeance. The primary overriding emotions consuming her as she died a violent death nine hundred years before. But although her body was destroyed her spirit, her essence, endured. Trapped for nearly a thousand years, until recently. Since her release, almost a year ago, she has been living a half-life. She has a presence here on the physical plain but she is neither alive nor dead but something in between. It is a complication she failed to anticipate during her nine hundred year interment. It has its benefits of course, like most things. Morag Black is everywhere and she is nowhere. Free to move as she wills. However, her ability to reach out and touch the world as she must is severely restricted. The limitations of human flesh are many, but to fulfil her overriding need for vengeance she must once again clothe herself in flesh. Must cross fully into the physical world to stretch out her hand and smite the decedents of her ancient enemy. And so, she seeks a way to regain physical form. All her will is bent on it. She believes there might be a way. Dark and unforgivable majiks must be performed to make it so. A high price has to be paid for such things, but it must be paid if she is to succeed. And so she has set her plans in motion. Pulling strings from the shadows, weaving her webs.

A number of weeks ago she approached Timothy Tittleworth with a deal he couldn’t refuse. She chose him specifically because of his desperation to be someone. For his deep need to matter. These things she could manipulate for her own ends. Darkness calls to darkness, after all. The deepest parts of his soul were laid bare for her to see. Another benefit of her current state. These painful wounds in his spirit are like terrible scar tissue. In order to appear to him she’d been obliged to carry out a heinous crime against nature. A price always had to be paid when working the majiks. Nothing comes free. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to carry out despicable acts since her release a year before. Now a wendigo, forced to consume human flesh to sustain herself. A parasite having to latch itself onto the living in order to survive. Eating the flesh of children is just enough to allow her a temporary manifestation in the physical world. Borrowing their life force allowed her to take physical form for a short time. But like any battery this energy runs out eventually. In exchange for great success, fame and power Tittleworth agreed that upon his death his cadaver would be hers to do with as she pleased. You see, Morag Black has a penchant for necrophilia and she indulges often. Nine hundred years of repressed sexual frustration has led to the most unnatural appetites. She has needs, and for Morag Black sex is a dish best served cold. She intends to claim this prize from him sooner rather than later. Just as soon as she gets what she needs from him. Tittleworth is not the only scheme she is developing at the moment. There are a number of others in fact. Schemes intended to sew chaos and terror. All part of a grand design to destroy this society and the despicable people within it. One unintended, and unexpected, consequence of these schemes stands right behind her, staring down at a pigeon. The creation of this abomination was not something she’d foreseen. However, she seized on this serendipitous encounter to inspire Tittleworth and begin his journey to greatness. Black weaves her spell on him. She feels the instant her majiks are successful. She can see it in his eyes. That moment when the concept is imparted to his dull mind from her own. Her thin lips form the closest thing to a smile she can manage.

Tittleworth looks away from her as someone enters the coffee shop and approaches him. Now her attention is no longer on Tittleworth she notices a young mother and her toddler standing nearby. A little red haired boy who is clutching a toy of some sort. The woman is deep in conversation with another young lady, evidently a friend. The podgy toddler stands by patiently, staring fascinated at the imbecilic man who then lets out an excited bark and begins chasing the bird around the Square. The two women turn their heads to see what the commotion is about, their backs to the little boy. It is only for an instant. The blink of an eye, but it is all the time Morag Black needs. By the time they turn back, the little boy is gone. And so is Morag Black. The door of the Daily Grind bangs open, just as their panic sets in. A fat man in a gold shell suit and baseball cap runs across the Square, followed by another man with a club hammer in hand.

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