3. Glitter Coochie

Chapter three

Glitter Coochie

Izadora

T he bitch—sorry, I meant witch—that cursed me, did allot for one tiny perk in her hex.

The ability to hide in plain sight.

Well, sort of. See she made it so I was immemorable . It may sound a bit sad, but it means that I have been able to live in essentially the same area my entire life and it makes moving amongst the humans easy. That, combined with the glamour that I was able to construct.

Don't get too excited. It only lasts a handful of hours, it tastes like bird shit, and I have only been able to glamour myself as a ninety-year-old hermit woman with entirely too many cats.

Yeah, so maybe the cats thing isn't part of the glamour.

It's not my fault though! I adopted one back when I was human and spaying wasn't a thing back then. Of course, then all her hussy daughters got pregnant, and so on and so on. So now I have... a shit ton of cats.

At least I can't ever complain about being lonely, right?

Yeah, I get that animals who can't actually talk back aren't really much for company. But am I worried about my mental stability?

Hell no!

I mean, I probably should be, but who's got time for that shit?

"Honey! I'm home!" I scream into the house as I fling open the front door. Only two of the eight million felines that live here actually bother to toss a half-assed meow in my direction. They are all far too used to my late work nights and tend to be rather undisturbed about my comings and goings. Ignoring their rudeness, I gently set Thelma and Louise into the basket by the door where they tend to hang out most days.

Kicking off my heavy black leather combat boots at the door, I pretend to skate across the wooden floor on my socked feet. Like usual, I don't make it far before I land on my ass. With a grumble and a growl, I rip off the small tubes of fabric and toss them at my laundry basket. They land close-ish so I consider it a win and haul my ass back up. As per my usual post-murder ritual, I climb the stairs to the only room in the house that could be considered more than just modestly outfitted.

My luxurious ensuite bathroom.

Flicking the knobs over, I let the water pour into my enormous tub and with an excited fuck it, I toss in a black bath bomb that I know will have me picking glitter out of my coochie for weeks. But sometimes, when you are a crazy pumpkin head killer, you need that little extra something to make you feel pretty. Even if the end result is a disco ball-style vagina.

Tossing my clothes into a bucket I keep under the sink, I set them aside for burning later. I mean, I don't really need the evidence of my crimes just lying about my house. No matter how unconcerned I am about some type of law enforcement coming for me. I don't even think anyone realizes there is a house out here. Thanks to that immemorable portion of the hex, the house was built by people who forgot almost as soon as they left my property line. It's a good thing I opted to continue living off the grid when I updated a few years back and went with solar panels.

Do I sometimes get a little sad that I've never even gotten a piece of mail before? Yes. But then I also see some of the ridiculous junk mail my targets get and am grateful to not have that to deal with.

Hoisting my heaving pumpkin up off my shoulders, I gently set the beast on the counter.

I know what you're thinking.

Iza, how the fuck do you see what you are doing if your head isn't attached?

Remember when I said I had a real head somewhere? Well, the pumpkin is merely a placeholder. In fact, that is not the only pumpkin I have ever had. I've had hundreds over the years. Way back when I was first cursed, I used to ride around on my horse and throw the flaming gourd at people.

What? I had some anger issues, ok? No one is perfect.

Anyway, what I have is actually a phantom head. I can see, smell, and hear without using a pumpkin as a focal point, everything is just a touch more muted. Sounds are dull and my vision is like peering through a thin veil. Besides, I learned a long time ago that while the pumpkin can appear to be on fire, it doesn't actually cook. Boiling it in the hot-as-fuck bath water I tend to enjoy though... Yep, that definitely cooks it.

Since I am so not in the fucking mood to go pumpkin picking tonight, I save the trouble by placing it on the bathroom counter, before stalking over to the tub. Steam rises and I know that it's going to sting when I first get in, but I can't find it in me to care. It's almost as if that tiny pinch of feeling is the... well, only feeling I really have anymore. Isn't that a sad train of thought?

Flipping the knobs, I stop the water flow and pull myself into the steaming waters. As expected, the first three seconds in the water add a tiny sting of pain, before nothing. Still, the nothingness and the warmth soothe me. Maybe it's all a placebo effect, but I don't really care. With a big sigh that can't be heard, I sink into the depths a little and let myself relax.

Too bad that feeling only lasts seconds before something smacks me in the face.

And no, I don't mean metaphorically. I mean, I actually feel something smack into the space where my head should be.

The feeling scares me enough that I flail my arms around for a minute like a freaked-out fish, before I remember that I am a badass bitch, and reach up to grab the offending...

Envelope?

Did I get mail ? Oh fuck! I did! I got mail!

Wait… how the fuck did I get mail? Who the fuck sent me mail?

With my initial excitement waning, I carefully place the envelope on the chair beside my bathtub and let my arms fall back into the water. There is no writing on the envelope and unless I am mistaken, the last time I checked I did not have a mailbox for a head. That only happened once, ok and I was really drunk. Blame the horse. It's a long story. Anyway, envelope.

I try to enjoy the remaining soak, but my eyes are fixated on the envelope.

I know opening could answer all of my questions, but for some reason, I feel... not scared, but perhaps something more like trepidation? Yes. That feels right. Something in my brain is ringing the warning bells and causing my apprehension.

But my gut screams that whatever is inside the envelope is going to change more than just my view of mysterious mail.