Beautiful Wickedness

(...and an end of year wrap-up!)

Dear Macabre Musers,

As 2024 dwindles, it is time to take stock of everything: the good, the bad, and the incredibly frustrating. For the most part, aside from my political frustrations, this was a wonderful year and I am counting my blessings on all of my fingers and toes! Many of my writing colleagues do year-end wrap-ups in order to share all of their hard-earned and wonderful accomplishments. And while I have never been prone to do it myself (partly because, well, I didn’t feel like I had enough accomplishments to warrant a whole list), I have decided to give it a whirl this year.

This year was definitely one of HUGE transitions (cross country move! New day job!) and also one of planting many seeds. It is my hope that these seeds will produce a lot of fruit over the next couple of years!

And so, without further ado, here is my List of Writing Brags Accomplishments in 2024:

*I signed with a phenomenal agent!

*I had three short pieces published

*I wrote an additional six short stories (four of which are currently out for submission)

*I made Ellen Datlow’s Best of Horror Recommendations List! Ahhh!!!

*I placed second and third in two li’l horror writing contests (I got trophies! And cash!)

*I took a novel that I had written for adults, dismantled it, and rewrote it as a YA novel. And then I had to revise it. And revise it again. And again. This process took over a year.

*I started to work on that novel’s sequel. It’s a doozy!

*I drafted a reeeeeeally fun poetry collection about murderous women, both real and in fiction (e.g., Aileen Wuornos, Lady Macbeth, and soooo many others). I can’t wait to pitch it in the new year!

*I attended two major author conferences (StokerCon and Author Con) and numerous book events. Networking with my fellow Halloween People has been both rewarding and unbelievably fun (did I mention that I met my favorite author-and Stoker winner- Tananarive Due?).

*I sent Clay McLeod Chapman a CARE package. This is an important accomplishment.

*I started a Substack! Thank you for reading and supporting it!

Regarding the aforementioned “incredibly frustrating,” my YA novel is currently in submissions, which means that my agent has sent it out to quite a few wonderful editors in the hopes that they will love it and acquire it. I cannot convey how agonizing and painful this process is. I have certainly learned that being a writer is truly not for the faint of heart! Please keep your fingers crossed for me and send any good juju you may have to spare my way!

Back in March I teased a little true crime series that I was hoping to launch on TikTok. After clearing a few legal questions, I will *finally* be ready to launch that series in the early part of 2025! Make sure to follow me on TikTok: @mackbrookepro. This will be fun!

In honor of the release of WICKED, and as a special treat for my last post of the year, I wanted to share a (previously published) short story in which I imagine what the Wicked Witch of the West does post-melting (in a non-WICKED world). It is entitled Beautiful Wickedness. Enjoy!

As a reward for reading, there will be a fun riddle at the end. Thank you for your support this year! May you have a fruitful and happy 2025!

Yours in Terror,

Brooke MacKenzie

BEAUTIFUL WICKEDNESS

It was a foggy night in London – is there any other kind? – when The Wicked Witch of the West pulled herself from the mattress on the floor. She began her daily routine of cursing the windowless basement room Glinda had given her out of a sense of guilt and obligation (“London is expensive! It’s all I could afford,” she had explained. “At least you have a free place to live!”), and felt that familiar sequence of joint cracking as she stood and stretched: right hip, right knee. Left hip, left knee. “Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, fluff your hair and blow a kiss,” she sang to herself. She flipped on the switch of the one cup coffee maker that was on the tiny square of countertop next to an even tinier sink. A short rod held her rotating wardrobe of four black robes. The rest of the room was filled with shelves. So many shelves. And on those shelves, rows and rows of her treasures. The spoils of her nighttime sojourns. And it was time to add another to her collection.

She didn’t ask to be resurrected. Glinda, ever the do-gooder, was the one who put The Wicked Witch back together again after Dorothy threw that ill-fated bucket of water. Glinda just couldn’t stand the sight of those black robes, wet and shimmering like a puddle of oil, lying on the castle floor. Or that empty conical hat topping it like a burnt-out birthday candle – one that was stingy with its wish-granting. And so, Glinda, with hands on her cotton candy hips and head tilted sympathetically, clucked her tongue and uttered an incantation before waving her wand. The black puddle rose and billowed into a once-again human form, and thus, The Wicked Witch of the West was brought back to life. Unfortunately for The Wicked Witch, everything comes with a price. She would never be quite the same as she was before she melted (though Glinda had done her best), and she was permanently banished from Oz – forced to leave behind the impeccable home she had built, decorated, and cared for during her years there.

The Wicked Witch pulled on her black trench coat and the hat she had fashioned from her old one by lopping off the top part of the cone. The wide brim protected her from the rain and sun in equal measures – not that she could have ventured out into the sun even if she wanted to.

As she left her dank little room, the mist-encapsulated streetlamps were like otherworldly mushrooms spreading toxic spores. She pulled her hat down and shoved her hands into her pockets. If she was exposed to any light whatsoever, her skin would flower into blisters and then burst, gushing liquid so thick that she would leave a slug trail behind her as she walked. A side effect of Glinda’s resurrection spell was that she was stripped of her glorious emerald skin, and instead covered in a sallow shade of yellowish-green – the color of phlegm and infection – that was utterly unable to absorb light. It had the texture of crepe paper and tore just as easily.

Along with her skin, the very world around her seemed to be made of paper. The rows of houses on the street where she lived seemed florid in their décor, and yet, so very fragile and inconsequential. Postcard images that could be torn in half and discarded. Flimsy edifices sheltering even flimsier lives. It seemed that it would only take a stiff, wet wind to blow it all away.

In London, she drifted aimlessly – a phantom with a singular purpose: collecting. Her boots, though sturdy – constructed of stiff leather and thick laces – were impractical for walking. They didn’t yield at the ankle the way shoes should, and the resulting clack clack clack of her footsteps on the sidewalk seemed an overly loud staccato, offensive to her ears, and drew more attention than she could ever want. Finally, she arrived at her intended street. One that was narrow and curvy and wedged between other streets and buildings in such a way that it seemed to have been put in as an afterthought. So much of London felt that way to her. There was riotous chaos in Oz, but under the frantic scurrying of day to day life was the hum of a well-functioning machine. There were plans and purpose and certainty. And, even as she threw evil monkey wrenches into the mix, somehow that was always part of the plan as well.

She walked up the three steps to the door and paused before a large doorknob and sturdy-looking lock, their metallic surfaces clouded over in the wet air. The flat in front of her was unspectacular, just like the others that lined this serpentine street. But it didn’t matter. She had been stalking it, waiting for days for the right time to enter, ever since she first saw her prize on the street and followed it here.

She looked to her right and left. Save for a dog sniffing at a pile of full garbage bags waiting for pickup on the corner, the street was empty. While Glinda had taken away The Wicked Witch’s magic, she had forgotten to strip her of one feature that still made her both formidable and remarkable: the strength in her hands. The Wicked Witch put one hand on the doorknob and one on the lock, and with a brief squeeze she made quick work of both of them. They crunched and broke like brittle walnut shells and she discarded them in the street.

The door creaked and groaned as she pushed it open – swollen wood on aging hinges – alerting the tiny dog that she knew to expect. Its shrill little barks echoed through the flat as it ran from the bedroom to the front door, puffing itself up almost comically to intimidate the intruder. When it was finally close enough she picked it up by the scruff of its neck and in one brief movement snapped its spine nearly in half. She had perfected that move so well that there was not even a final yelp of pain. There was no pain at all. She sighed as she stroked the lifeless dog in her hands, closing its eyelids so that it looked like it was sleeping.

Dogs were simply collateral damage. She had nothing against dogs, and even liked them on occasion. It was always about hurting the humans who loved them. If she had been able to kill Toto, it would have destroyed Dorothy. Maybe not immediately. But eventually the grief would have become an ever-present thorn stuck in the vulnerable parts of her life.

The Wicked Witch continued absent-mindedly petting the dog as she carried it to the bedroom. The door was partly open, revealing the signs of nighttime snoring and flatulence by the couple inside. She set the dog right outside the door where its owners would trip over it in the morning before releasing the thrashing guttural sounds of grief as they crouched over its dead, furry body. A feeling of glee bubbled up for The Wicked Witch as she imagined the scene. Except she imagined it with Dorothy’s tears streaming down Dorothy’s face as Dorothy crouched over Toto’s body. All of the dogs were Toto. All of the women were Dorothy. Including the one who slept but a few steps away.

The Wicked Witch glided into the room, keeping her clunky shoes silent, and stood at the foot of the bed over two sleeping shapes. The male slept on his side, and his sizeable gut made a bulge in the bed sheet. His snores were punctuated every so often with a graceless snort. The female shape was on her back with her hands crossed demurely over her chest – a pose that was both angelic and corpselike – and her hair framed her head in a halo of brown ringlets. Even in the dark, The Wicked Witch could see how much the woman looked like Dorothy.

Slowly, ever so slowly, The Wicked Witch lifted the bed sheet and folded it back, exposing the woman’s foot. With her thumbnail she began tracing the perimeter of the foot, and then pressed into it with the pad of her thumb. Millimeter by millimeter she ran her thumb around the woman’s foot, feeling its fleshy parts and its callouses on the heel – belying the need for a pedicure – before pausing and admiring that spectacularly high arch. After tracing the woman’s foot a few more times she paused at the toes and sucked in her breath. The toes were always her favorite part. They felt fragile and juicy, like overly ripe grapes that could easily burst with the right amount of pressure. The Wicked Witch knew her strong fingers could obliterate the toes in a brief but satisfying instant: with a crunch, pop, and splatter she could make the woman’s toes an excruciating stain on the bed. And, oh, it would be just the release she needed. But she restrained herself, and continued stroking the toes ever so lightly, feeling a warmth in her fingers that spread through the rest of her limbs. This woman’s feet were perfect. Just the right shape, size, and texture. The Wicked Witch rubbed the callous on the big toe – a telltale sign of time spent in high heels – and a simultaneous sense of desire and satisfaction boiled in her belly.

In her sleep the woman’s feet twitched slightly like frightened baby birds against The Wicked Witch’s fingers. The Witch held her breath. When the woman’s feet relaxed in her hands once again, The Wicked Witch gave them one last subtle squeeze – an appreciative embrace – before reluctantly releasing them. She fell to the ground and drifted like a crawling fog of black clouds – her robes dramatically flaring out behind her – over to the woman’s closet where her prize was waiting.

The woman’s shoes were organized impeccably: color coordinated and stored heel-to-toe. It was clear to The Wicked Witch that, given the humble backdrop of the flat, with its cheap art on the wall and sheets with a low thread count, the woman’s priority in spending her money was on shoes. This seemed to be a hallmark of the thoroughly modern London woman, for one reason or another. In any case, The Wicked Witch was the ultimate beneficiary.

Even in the dark The Wicked Witch could spot the ones she had seen on the street: a pair of heels covered in silver sparkles with soles delicately painted a perfect, glossy red – the color of vibrant nails and pouty lips and elusive ruby slippers. She brought the shoe to her nose and breathed in. It was that musky mixture of salty sweat and expensive leather. Rapture, she whispered – a word she had heard The Scarecrow use and she loved how it felt in her mouth.

She picked up the other shoe and pressed them both to her chest. She had to purse her lips to prevent the cackle of glee that was building in her throat from escaping through her mouth. She had to be secretive and subtle. Overt displays of noise and power were not welcome in this world, particularly not from women. And so she resumed her fog-like crawling – this time made a bit more awkward due to the shoes that she held pressed to her chest with one hand – and took care to avoid the obstacle of the dead dog in the doorway.

Once outside the bedroom door The Wicked Witch pulled herself to her feet, and the black dress billowed around the spindly column of her body like smoke in a chimney. There was one more thing she had to do before slipping out the door and through the London streets, bound for home.

The couple had left a light on in the living room, as most couples did to ward off evil and lull themselves into a false sense of security. The Wicked Witch balled the end of her bell-shaped sleeve into her fist and exposed only the thumb of her right hand after it wiggled through an entrance in the fabric. She examined the place where the skin had been split apart and healed numerous times on the pad of her thumb and winced a little. She hated this part. However, she knew it was absolutely necessary. It was her own special brand of vengeance. She licked the damaged fingertip and held it to the lightbulb in that lone lamp.

It happened the same way every time, after each conquest: she would leave her mark. The skin would start to sizzle slightly – the sound butter makes when it hits a warm pan. But the smell was different. It started out faint – meat past its prime. And then the sizzling grew louder and the smell grew more pungent – though no more enticing – as the light blazed through her skin. The fat and tissue became liquefied, and they bubbled and popped, dripping down that unfortunate lightbulb in sickly little streams. The light green of The Wicked Witch’s skin gave way to a mucousy white, which gave way to a pale red, and that was always her signal to stop. At that point, the blood was sufficiently gushing enough for her to leave her mark and take her thumb off of the lightbulb. On the white wall of the living room she drew an upside-down triangle. It was large enough so that it wouldn’t be missed. She had to work quickly before the blood started to clot, becoming less inky and more chunky, and therefore much more difficult to manipulate.

The upside-down triangle had multiple meanings and could therefore be open to interpretation for its unfortunate recipients. For The Wicked Witch, however, this bloody graffiti symbolized only one thing: the tornado. This was the very thing that had shredded her life – even unbeknownst to her at the time – as it brought That Girl to Oz. And with her, came pain and chaos. Before the tornado, The Wicked Witch’s life had been, while not necessarily happy, at least stable and predictable. The ruby slippers had been on a pair of feet that The Wicked Witch had known and loved: her sister’s. The way those shoes had clattered on The Yellow Brick Road while her sister walked had been musical and familiar. Everything in Oz, in her life, had buzzed along in its technicolor groove of both ordinary and extraordinary existing all at once. That is, until the tornado came and cut a swath across everyone’s days, stealing her sister and those precious, precious shoes. And so, each time The Wicked Witch claimed her prize she left a terrible tribute to that tornado. After all, if it were not for that tornado, she would not be sneaking around London flats in the middle of the night. She would be comfortably living out her days in the castle, yelling at her henchmen and experimenting with new magic.

As the upside-down triangle began to dry and darken to a rich burgundy – the color of a heady wine – The Wicked Witch took one last look around the home that she had politely invaded that night. The sleeping couple peered out at her from framed pictures in front of waterfalls, with other family members, and clad in wedding clothes. They were, as far as The Wicked Witch was concerned, paper people. A dime a dozen. Utterly inconsequential. In her hands, however, she held something real and substantial. Her anger towards Dorothy, her grief over losing her sister and her home and even her previous life, it could all be channeled into these shoes. These shoes with the red soles. It was as if she held pieces of her beloved ruby slippers. These shoes were the very shape of her joy.

As she left the couple’s flat with her prize in hand, she closed the door behind her and was initially startled by the sound of her clunky footsteps on the London pavement. She pointed her secretly rejoicing body in the direction of home.

Once she arrived home, her ritual was always the same: gently wipe down the shoes with a special cloth and lay them on her pillow. She would then lay her head next to them and stare and stare until her eyes could no longer consume the small hint of sparkle all over the shoes, and the remarkable ruby red on the soles. Then, the next morning, she would find a place for the new shoes on her shelves. The shoes would never again know the harsh reality of London pavement again. Here, they would be admired and treasured and loved. After all, special shoes deserved nothing less.

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RIDDLE:

I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?

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Answer: An echo