Danny Jones and the Bridge Witch, Part II

The smell was unbearable, like sour milk and sulfuric eggs washed down with the juice of dirty socks. Danny moaned as his senses slowly started waking up. How long had he been here? The ground was cool and damp pressed against his cheek. He was spread across a dark earthly floor from what his weak vision could make out. What he wouldn't give to have his glasses.

"Nasty gash you've got there boy," the raspy voice from before came from across the room. Danny shoved himself up onto his hands.

"Ah!" Danny yelped and collapsed back onto the floor. His head felt like a spinning top. "I'd take it slow if I were you, boy. You lost a bit of blood out there," Ingrid Pearl croaked. Danny pressed his and against the back of his head. His hair was matted into clumps, and he could feel the tender slice across the center of his head.

"What are you going to do to me?" Danny asked. "My dad will be looking for me and no one messes with my dad."

"Ha! Indeed. I know more about Harvey Jones than you do, boy," Ingrid sneered.

"How...how do you know my dad's name is Harvey?" Danny wished he could see where she was.

"Never you mind that, boy. Can you stand?" Ingrid asked. Danny didn't know what to do. Should he play invalid a little longer? Should he muster all the strength he's got and run for the door? Where was the door? Ugh!

"Um, yeah I think so," Danny said as he slowly pushed himself onto his knees. He swayed a little, the cut on his head starting to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He reached out into the fuzzy haze and grabbed what looked to be a table. His hands slipped across the top, his fingers covered in something dark and grimey.

"Ew," Danny moaned. He didn't want to wipe the mystery gunk on his clothes. If he made it out alive his mother would tan his hide for ruining another shirt.

"Here boy," Ingrid Pearl placed something soft in his hands. Danny jumped. A cloth napkin, Danny guessed. He cleaned off his hands and shoved them in his jean pockets.

"You broke these, but I figure better to be able to see some than nothing at all," Ingrid said as she passed Danny his cracked glasses. As Danny slid them onto his nose the room around him came into view.

The earthly floor was nothing more than packed down dirt. The shabby wooden walls looked like they belonged in a tool shed, not the walls of someone's home. A grimey yellow light swung from the ceiling, casting a sickly light around the tiny space. A frail rickety cot sat in the corner, covered in a flimsy thin blanket with no pillow. A small wooden table with peeling green paint and a matching chair with uneven legs were pressed against the opposite wall. There was an old fashioned wood stove, like the one he guessed Laura Ingalls would have used, against the far wall next to a small shelf holding a single ceramic bowl, a wooden spoon and a little mug. How does she survive a midwestern winter in a place like this? He could feel the cold air creeping in through holes in the walls.

"I suppose Harvey Jones' boy would know nothing of humble living, ay boy?" Ingrid huffed as she hobbled over to the wood stove. Danny hadn't noticed the pot of boiling liquid. Danny's throat squeezed. Was she really going to eat him? Chop him up and boil him in a stew? Ingrid picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot.

"What's in there?" Danny asked.

"Why don't you come over and see. If you're brave enough to knock on my door, surely you're brave enough to see what's in this pot," said Ingrid. Danny hesitated. He couldn't tell if Ingrid was crazy or just a crotchety old woman.

Danny walked confidently, albeit slowly, over to Ingrid. The smell grew stronger with every step. When Danny was close enough to see inside, acid boiled in his stomach. He couldn't believe his eyes. Heart pounding, palms sweating, vision blurring, Danny turned around and vomited all over the floor.

To be continued...

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