Demon Seeks Witch (part 3 of 6)

But I’m not a quitter. All day Saturday, I watched you manage the arcade. Too anxious to perch, I feezed in circles through the rafters, watching the witch sign float around you. A herd of local teens rumbled in, bought a pile of quarters, and stampeded for the Skee-ball pit. The weekly Skee-ball tournament was a favorite summer contest for these kids, and you always kept score. You also magicked the results. Clever boots.

I remembered Goody Cabot—my first witch—using dramatic hand gestures when she cast magic, but you stood beside a Skee-ball game and grew a set of tentacles from your shoulders. It was endearing. The kids didn’t notice. When you tapped your suckers on the control box, I settled on a rafter to watch. What were you up to, my soon-to-be witch?

Clustered at the pitching line were two teams, a giggle of rainbow-haired girls and a fumble of lobster boat boys who smelled of bait. For an hour, the boys held the high score, but inspired by the steady determination of Ruxton High’s star softball pitcher, Leah Sandover, the girl’s score rose to match it. They played with passion; a much-coveted ride in someone’s convertible was at stake. Fascinated, I watched your delicate tentacles flick lavender sparks into the Skee-ball controls to keep the game score close. As you displayed your powers, my glow increased. Enthralled, I slid off the rafter and dropped for a closer look. I imitated one of your gestures and accidentally hexed the game. The scoreboard froze and blacked out. You checked the plug and shook the control box, your beautiful eyebrows drawing a V-line of concern. But Skee-ball was dead. The teens moaned in disappointment. As the one-in-charge, you adjudicated.

“Skee-ball is down. We have to call the game. Leah, your team was leading, so you are the winners.”

“Not fair,” said the tallest, smelliest boat boy.

“It’s fair,” said the girls in a loud chorus.

Tentacles waving, you let your magic flow over them, and they calmed.

“I’ll refund the cost of this game, and we’ll have a rematch next week.”

Pacified, they accepted the rolls of quarters and trash-talked about their next match on the way out. You locked the arcade door to start the daily closeout. I floated over the pinball machines and watched as you emptied quarters from the collection bins.

Then, a miracle happened.

Your body sagged, and after a long moment, you straightened, pushing back the black wings of hair that fell over the sides of your face. Your mind opened like a flower to my existence. You turned in my direction, and you looked at me.

Me.

I preened and fluffed up my wisps.

“Are you a fairy?”

You asked me, not without some delicious sarcasm. Tendrils of luminous enchantment followed the words from your mouth and twined as they rose toward me. I writhed with delight.

Delicious darkness. My witch recognized me at last.

I unraveled and nearly flew into the bug zapper, hyperexcited by my renewed hopes. Dodging it, I zoomed across the rafters, one of my wisps emitting a thin stream of black smoke. I streaked across the pinball machines, pulling plungers and twitching levers, unable to contain my joy. Wonder Woman’s high score fanfare trumpeted through the arcade. Your laugh jingled like a silver bell as your magic curled into a question mark. I semaphored my wisps, desperate to speak with you, but the only response I got was a confused stare. At least you could see me. I wisped a heart shape around my core, and you laughed, curling your sharp little mouth into a half-smile. I hugged myself with pleasure.

“Can you tell me what you are, spirit?” You walked down the pinball aisle.

I launched a steel ball into the Hellsgate game, and its backglass lit up with angels and demons.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Angel.”

 My wisps twitched with delight at your adorable assumption. Angel, demon, spirit—there wasn’t much difference. All could be equally bad or good. If only you could hear my voice and I could persuade you to bond and become my witch.

On the beach, the concert crowd oohed at the bright fireworks bursting overhead. For a moment, the solitary figure of a man stood alone on the shoals, but he disappeared before the next flash of light.

#

After you’d closed the Play-a-Rama and stopped at the Ruxton Pantry to buy food, I possessed a bat and swooped through the crack under your kitchen window. The organization of your kitchen showed you were a girl with unusual tastes. Large glass cake stands on the counter held piles of half-eaten shellfish under their domes. The trash can overflowed with empty fish stick boxes, but there was no oven or microwave. I hadn’t seen a shell midden this ripe since Goody Cabot’s day. It smelled delicious. The bat I possessed had a different opinion.

We darted out of the kitchen and into the living/dining room space. You had a small television and a wall full of stereo equipment. I considered the options for communicating with you as we toured your apartment. I could coerce the bat into scratching some letters on the bathroom mirror. There was a spider under the sink that could weave a message. But then, in your bedroom, I spied the Ouija board on the dresser.

Perfect.

I used our wing to push the Ouija’s planchette onto the floor. I dispossessed the bat, and we waited on the windowsill for your return. With breathless anticipation, I watched when you came in with your plastic sacs, filled with the boxes of seafood. You flopped into a chair at the kitchen table and consumed a plate of frozen fish sticks. Plain, not even ketchup. An hour and two rock albums later, you shuffled off to the bedroom, kicking the planchette under the dresser as you went. The bat shrugged his wings. I twanged my wisps with frustration.

We tried again the next day.

And the day after, you stepped on the planchette and howled. My wisps drooped as you stood in the bedroom by the dresser, looking at the cut on your foot. I prayed you’d sense my need to communicate.

An hour later, my prayers were answered. You sat at the kitchen table with your Ouija board, a box of Band-Aids, and a soda. I flowed into the planchette and drifted it across the board. You started and then smiled.

“Angel, is it you?”

I pushed it across to the word YES.

You tapped the Ouija board with the tip of a glowing tentacle and spoke in my general direction.

“What is your name?”

H-U-X. I spelled. I-M—A—F-A-M-L-I-A-R.

Oh, black blessed flames. I had my voice again.

I twisted my wisps around myself with delight. Letter by letter, I explained how I’d been waiting to meet you and how I wanted to help you. Our conversation deepened after that. I wooed you carefully, reluctant to overwhelm you with my eager impatience. I hid the dragging despair of waiting three hundred years to meet a witch. You seemed more pleased than surprised by my conversation, so I asked the question.

W-A-N-T—T-O—B-O-N-D?

To my delight, you said, “Why not?”

H-O-L-D—Y-O-U-R—H-A-N-D-S—O-U-T

C-A-L-L—M-Y—N-A-M-E

T-H-R-I-C-E

You looked at the board. I’d waited for this moment for 300 years.

“Hux, Hux, Hux.”

I hovered above the table, quivering with anticipation, but nothing happened. A white feather floated in from the window. Curse those gulls—those flying scavengers. I vaporized the feather.

A-G-A-I-N?

“Hux, Hux, Hux.”

Had they changed the incantation? It had been centuries since I’d bonded.

“Am I doing it correctly?” You asked, looking annoyed.

Y-E-S

I reached for your essence, desperate to make a bond, but as I did, bright bands of light covered your heart. Something blocked our bond. I took the blame, stalling for time.

N-O-T—Y-O-U—I-T-S—M-E.

“I see,” you said. Your disappointment made me flounder for words.

T-O-M-O-R—

You didn’t let me finish. Instead, you put the Ouija board in the closet and went to bed. I flopped onto the empty windowsill. Another white feather floated past. I followed it down the street. It was late in Ruxton Beach; an evening shower had cleared the boardwalk. I drifted onto the beach, half inclined to possess something and brood out at the lighthouse. Some animal had killed a gull, leaving its body splayed and bloody on the sand. Its large wings reminded me of Yofiel. Why did Yofi fall down to this town twenty-four years ago? If, for some arcane reason, that brassy ding-dong’s arrival spell-bound you, then I had evil to do.

Demon Seeks Witch (part 3)

Previously in Demon Seeks Witch: Still failing at winning Karly's heart, Hux tries harder, makes some headway by using a Ouija board, but something holds her back. Another competitor for her attention is about to arrive.

Demon Seeks Witch is a paranormal fantasy featuring hidden heritage, a love triangle, and a redemption arc. Set in Ruxton Beach, N.H. it follows Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, a demon-familiar, as he seeks to woo Karly into becoming his witch, while her guardian angel father and a golden voiced rival work to make sure he never gets the chance.

Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute.

Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved.
Read more at https://www.acworthwriter.com/
My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid.