Free 01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits by Kaye Umansky - (ebook by Undead)

air, and they all had visions of receiving the Hugo Award from Scott
Sinister’s own hands (to thunderous applause, naturally).
    Some of them took to wearing dark glasses and claiming that they wanted to be
alone, in between trying to get themselves photographed for the Daily Miracle.
Even Bonidle entered into the spirit of things, changing her act from KOODUNT
KARE LESS to UNICYCLING. No one had seen the unicycle, but she could be seen
from time to time limping home from some secret place swathed in bandages. All
the Witches kept their acts a close secret. You might have heard a few
mysterious noises coming from various caves and cottages as you strolled through
the wood, but that was all. Nobody really knew what anyone else was doing, and
the atmosphere was charged with tension and excitement. Pongwiffy, meanwhile,
lay in bed cuddling The Letter and counting the minutes.
    “I make it only another two thousand eight hundred and eighty-two to go,
Hugo,” she said dreamily some days later. Hugo was putting the final touches to
the Hugo Award, which was a small statue of a Hamster holding a torch aloft. It
was rather good except that the gold paint tended to rub off (being cheap
cut-price stuff from Macabre’s uncle, who was in the trade).
    “Two tousant eight ’undred and eighty-two vat?”
    “Minutes to go. Till I meet Scott Sinister.”
    “Oh ya? Sumpsink up wiz your math, I sink.”
    “Why? How many do you make it?”
    “Sixty.”
    “WHAT? You’re wrong, you must be!”
    “Is true. Is now fifty-nine. You ’ave been fast asleep for two days. Better
get out of bed. Tonight’s ze night!”
    He was right. It was. Pongwiffy nearly died.
     
    * * *
     
    Witchway Hall was packed. News of the Great Talent Contest had spread far and
wide, and the tickets had been snapped up like hot cakes. A party of Skeletons
had arrived in a hired hearse, talking loudly in snooty voices about the poor
quality of entertainment on offer these days. Nevertheless they sat in the most
expensive seats.
    There was a bit of fuss when ticket holders found their seats already
occupied by Ghouls who had sneaked in through the walls when nobody was looking,
but Dead Eye Dudley was the bouncer, and managed to sort it out to everyone’s
dissatisfaction.
    A row of Banshees shrieked and howled to each other in the back row, passing
sweets and ignoring the glares from the rest of the audience. Fiends, Demons,
Trolls, Bogeymen, Werewolves and even a couple of Wizards (in disguise, of
course—it wouldn’t do to be seen at a Witch Do) packed the hall.
    The band began to tune up. They were called the Witchway Rhythm Boys, and
consisted of a small Dragon named Arthur who played the piano, a Leprechaun
named O’Brian on penny whistle and Filth the Fiend on drums. They were a long
time tuning up, and the audience were getting restless.
    “Why don’t you play a proper tune?” screamed one of the Banshees in the back
row.
    “We just did,” said Arthur.
    Meanwhile, Pongwiffy was biting her fingernails outside the hall. The Guest
of Honour and Judge of the contest still hadn’t arrived. Suppose he didn’t turn
up? Suppose he was ill, or his coach had broken down or he’d lost the address or
forgotten the day or… Suddenly, her heart leapt at the welcome sound of
drumming hooves and a cracking whip.
    Into the glade galloped a team of plumed, snorting, sweating coal black
horses, towing behind them a long, low, gaudily painted coach. A huge star
decorated the door, and the number plate read S S 1. Scott Sinister had arrived!
    Pongwiffy gave a muffled little scream of excitement as the coachman—a bent,
humpbacked figure with a paper bag over its head(?), shuffled round to the door
and wrenched it open with a flourish. Out stepped the great man, wearing an
imposing gold and scarlet cloak, black fingerless gloves (to show off the rings)
and a pair of rather silly sunglasses. Moonlight glinted off his sharp white
teeth and