I don’t think it will spoil my story one bit if I tell you upfront that I’m dead. It isn’t the fact that I’m dead that makes my tale most interesting, but how I ended up dead. This is that story.
I started long-haul truck driving the year I was discharged from the Marines. October of ’78, I was driving a load of toothpicks to the East Coast. It was late Halloween night, nearing 2 a.m., and the trick-or-treat goblins had long gone to bed. I’d just passed through Whitefish, Montana, when the logs I was carrying and my eyelids started feeling a couple tons heavier. Making good time on my haul, I figured it was a good opportunity to pull over at the next truck stop for coffee and a cheeseburger.
After miles of pitch-black driving, I finally saw light up ahead. A small greasy spoon, no bigger than a mobile home, sat just off the road, bathed in red neon light. The sign out front read “The Scarlet Kilt.” It could’ve been “The Purple Panties” for all I cared; I was hungry and needed caffeine. I pulled over.
Inside was the kind of place you’d see a thousand times if you’d been on the road as long as I had. Same heartburn-inducing food, same tired employees. But there was something about this joint, something slightly off. I walked in, lit a Marlboro, and took a seat at a small wooden table in the darkest corner.
I propped a menu in front of my face and pretended to read while I scanned my surroundings. An old cowboy in filthy clothes sucked down a brew, while a leathery-faced woman, old enough to be his mom, chewed on his ear. A white-bearded biker with a massive gut stood up, fished his wallet out of his pants, and punched Jim Stafford’s “Spiders and Snakes” into the jukebox, then walked out. Behind the counter, the cook, a hulking, Elliott Gould look-alike, flipped greasy patties and chomped on a stogie. The whole scene was a tableau of roadside stereotypes and eccentricities.
A sharp cackle broke through the haze of smoke and grease. A short, middle-aged waitress skittered to the counter, whipping a rag around like a ninja weapon.
“Arnie, sugar, if your burgers get any blacker, we’re gonna need coal shovels!”
The cook didn’t flinch. The waitress glanced at me, grabbed a pitcher of water, and strutted over with a smile that shifted between sassy and sinister.
“Don’t let that scare you, doll,” she said. “I wouldn’t say it to his face, but Arnie makes a fantastic cheeseburger. I just love busting his balls. I’ve been doing it for 25 years, but between you and me, he doesn’t hear well, so I’m not even sure he knows I’m doing it.”
She poured ice water.
“Welcome to The Scarlet Kilt, handsome,” she said. “I’m Evanora. Owner, CEO, and your waitress tonight. What can I get for you?”
“Cheeseburger and coffee,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Tom. What can I get for you?”
She leaned in, shaking my hand with a crooked smile. “Honey, I think I’ve got everything I need. This place, my little upstairs apartment, and a steady stream of good-looking men like yourself dropping by. Hey, a girl never gets tired of that kind of eye candy, even when it’s not Halloween.”
She winked, and it made my heart skip a beat. “And you, Mr. Tom… well, you’re the type of eye candy that would make a girl happy she brought an extra-large Trick or Treat sack. What’s a handsome guy like you doing out here so late anyway? Don’t you know only maniacs and murderers come out this time of night?”
“That rig out there stacked with timber? That’s mine,” I said. “I don’t know what they’re going to use all that wood for, and that’s not my problem, but me and that wood are currently on our way to West Virginia.”
She tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “That sure is a lot of wood you’re packing there. But I’ll bet you’ve heard that before. Wait, your name isn’t something ironic like ‘Tom Woods,’ or ‘Tom Plank’? Oh god, please tell me you are the world-famous porn star, Tom Logg…”
“Corbett,” I interrupted. “Tom Corbett. Yours?”
She shrugged. “Sugar, there’ve been too many last names. I’ve lost track. Just call me Evanora.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Evanora. Let me guess, you really love peaches.”
She blinked at me. “Peaches?”
I pointed at her necklace, a string of polished peach pits. “Either you really love peaches, or your kid won the arts and crafts blue ribbon at church camp.”
She grinned. “I’m a Georgia peach, born and raised. Haven’t been there in years, though. This necklace reminds me and keeps me grounded.”
“A southern belle?” I said. “I would never have guessed.”
“It’s been a long time,” she replied. “I didn’t fit in down there. Came out here to find myself. I’m a Montana girl at heart now. Anyway, let me put your order in and check on Monty. He’s the one over there wearing the cowboy hat and the whore. I’ll be back with some hot coffee in a couple of minutes.”
She strutted back to the counter, and I watched her go, not even trying to hide the way my eyes followed her. The place did have a weird energy, but Evanora had a way of making everything feel a little lighter. A nice change from the monotonous stretches of highway I’d been driving.
A few more customers came in and out, and Evanora continued to make her rounds to my table, squeezing my shoulder or giving me a flirtatious rub on the neck. I was starting to wonder how to make a move on her when Monty, the cowboy, and his leathered lady staggered out.
“Arnie,” she said, laughing, “your cooking has run off another one!”
She winked at me again. Her flirtations grew bolder with each pass of my table. By the time my burger and coffee arrived, I was more interested in her than the food. As I finished the last of my coffee, she plopped herself onto my lap.
“My shift is over, sugar,” she said, fingers tracing down my arm. “I don’t think I want to go home alone tonight. What do you say you come with me? No strings attached. You hit the road first thing in the morning, no questions asked.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “You look like you could use a shower and a soft bed. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just wait five minutes after I go out the front, then follow me ‘round the back, up the stairs.”
She kissed my cheek before prancing off. I waited five minutes, paid my bill, and left a generous tip. I made my way around the back of the diner, climbed the stairs to her apartment, and found the door unlocked as promised. Stepping inside, the comforting scent of incense and candle wax greeted me. The place exuded a cozy, museum-like atmosphere, its shelves crowded with eclectic trinkets, Celtic amulets, and a few peculiar stuffed animals. Above the fireplace hung a picture of a younger Evanora sitting on the lap of a smiling, red-bearded guy. A painting of a man with a goat head hung above them. Despite its quirky charm, the place felt oddly welcoming.
Evanora appeared, wearing a cherry-colored satin robe, barefoot and stunning. She carried two mugs of tea. “Hope you’re up for a cup,” she said, giving me a smile. “I make it myself. Helps me sleep. China Black, chamomile, rose hips… a few other things.”
I took the tea and sipped. It tasted earthy, with a faint sweetness. She led me to the couch. “Let me show you something,” she said, digging through a cabinet. She produced a small box, opened it, and revealed a hand-rolled joint. “I hope you don’t mind. Helps me relax.”
She lit the joint, took a long drag, and offered it to me. The smoke made my head swim, and the tea’s warmth spread through my body like a spell.
“My ex, Rory, was Scottish,” she said. “He taught me the craft when I was 19.”
“Craft?” I asked, my voice getting a little sleepy.
“Witchcraft. It isn’t what everyone thinks,” she said, lighting the joint again. “No baby-eating or cat-mutilating nonsense. No one does that kind of thing. It’s about nature and purification. Each of us has our own gift. Mine? Energy manipulation. I transfer energy.”
I looked at her, wondering if I should laugh. “I know, sounds weird,” she said, “but it’s real. In witchcraft, we’re all free to do our own thing, so we concentrate on the things we do best.”
The weed started kicking in. My mind was swirling with abstract thoughts. The witchy talk was making my head spin. Maybe there was something more than tea in my cup. A sudden surge of desire rose up in me, and before I knew it, I leaned in toward her. I wasn’t sure how I felt about making love to a witch, but I was ready to find out.
“I have that same philosophy,” I said. “Free to do my own thing. But to tell you the truth, right now, I’d rather do yours.”
I moved in, and pressed my lips to hers. She tasted like rose hips and vanilla, and the sweet scent of herbs perfumed the air of the room. Her tongue brushed against my mouth, and I loosened the tie on her robe while she undid mine. Our hands searched each other’s bodies as we sank back onto the couch.
We fucked for what felt like an infinity, the details of which are best left to memory, but it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I wanted more, but Evanora stood up, her body moving gracefully as she began to dance around the living room. Her nude, middle-aged figure still carried the vibrancy of someone far younger, and as she closed her eyes, she seemed to be lost in her own rhythm. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she swayed like a wood nymph, her movements slow, deliberate, and hypnotic.
She stretched out her arms.
“Dance with me, baby.”
I’ve never been shy, but dancing naked with a witch? That was a new one for me. I stood and joined her, unsure of my own movements. At first, I mimicked her graceful flow, but it was clear she was listening to some music only she could hear. It didn’t matter; I let her take the lead. Her arms rose above her head, and she skipped around as if caught in a magical trance. I followed her, trying my best to keep up.
She ran her hands over her own body, moving like she was making love to the air or some invisible presence. Her dance became more sensual, almost hypnotic. At first, I didn’t hear anything, but then, slowly, the music began to seep into my mind, like it had existed somewhere in the corners waiting to come out. I didn’t question it. We had connected on a deep level, and I could feel her energy wrapping around mine. Sweat dotted my skin, and my heartbeat quickened. We moved faster, spinning and twirling around the coffee table.
Suddenly, she stopped. She lifted her head and arms, her body still, and she whispered something in a language I wasn’t familiar with.
“Naestra, finna, toldor enna candorom! Shallae umstra lammacrom!”
She grabbed a stalk of herbs from the table and held it to embers in the fireplace. It caught alight immediately, and she placed it back on the table, where the fire quickly died, but the stalk smoldered. With a swift movement, she darted off to a closet and returned with what looked like a red kilt.
I froze. “What is this?”
“A gift,” she said. “Something special. Something passed down.”
I stared at the kilt. There was something unnatural about it. It seemed to have a strange, magnetic pull, as though it was waiting for me.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.
“Put it on,” she said, her voice suddenly hard, almost commanding. “It’s for you. It’s time.”
This woman seemed a little too old for dress-up, but I know a lot of people into role playing, so I didn’t argue. I was reluctant, but somehow… I couldn’t say no. Maybe it was the weed still clouding my head, or maybe it was something else. I was under her spell, and I complied. As soon as the kilt fastened, it began to glow, the red light intensifying. That was freaky. I tried to remove it. The buckles scortched my fingers.
Panic set in as the whole room felt different now. An unexplainable electricity charged the air. Everything about Evanora, about this place, now seemed different. It was no longer a night of lust, no longer an adventure. There was something ancient, something sinister here. I could feel it pressing against my chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Evanora moved slowly around me, her eyes locking on mine. “Do you feel it now?” she asked. “The change? The power?”
It was impossible not to feel it. When she first asked me to put the kilt on, I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was just some strange fetish of hers. Now, as the kilt pressed against my skin and seemed to burn deeper into me, I began to understand. This wasn’t just a costume. It was a power. A force. It was taking over me. I tried to tear it off, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t!” Evanora said. “You’re ours now, Tom. You belong to me and Rory. Just like all the others before you.”
Her words didn’t make sense to me, but then, through the haze, I remembered the peach pit necklace, the one nestled between the soft curve of her chest. At first, I hadn’t thought much about it, distracted by her beauty, her voice, her… presence. Now I could see it clearly.
Each of those seeds—not pits at all—but trophies. Mementos of conquests in her twisted collection. The men she had seduced, transformed, and consumed. I was simply another name on that long, horrific list. A notch on her belt. Another pit to add to her collection.
“Don’t resist it, Tom,” she said. “You’re giving Rory the gift of eternal life.”
I tried to scream—make any kind of noise, but the kilt had consumed me. It wasn’t physical anymore. It was spiritual. It was as if the very essence of me was being erased, rewritten, and remade into something else. Someone else. This kilt was alive, a vessel woven with threads of ancient magic and bound by blood oaths. It was Rory’s spirit pulsing within its glowing fibers, his unending life fueled by the stolen essence of those who dared to wear it. I became an offering, feeding Rory’s eternity.
The energy of the kilt surged, and Rory materialized. His form was radiant yet terrifying. A menacing smile grew beneath his red beard. He reached out, and I felt the last remnants of myself slip away, leaving only empty silence where once my soul had been.
The kilt fell limp, its glow dimmed. I was gone—no, transformed. No longer myself but a fragment of Rory’s eternal being. The kilt would wait, as it always had, for the next fool to continue its cycle. Rory was alive, and I was nothing more than two charms on a Montana witch’s necklace.
©2017 Rick Baldwin. All Rights Reserved.
(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)
