The Witches' Prison

Rodney Fish was just nuts about metal. Heavy metal, the dark kind. 

His favourite band was The Witches' Prison, an all female rock group and their album The Devil's In the Detail was without any shadow of a doubt the greatest single thing he'd ever seen or heard. Rodney listened to it ad nauseum in his bedroom and stared at the sleeve till his eyes watered.

Unlike the current trend for psychedelic gouts of paint, this cover appeared to be a photograph, albeit somewhat blurry, as if taken by someone in a car or slowly passing on a motorbike. It pictured an old dark mansion hidden by a thicket of trees and shrubs. It was winter and the only sign of life was a light on in the uppermost window of the mansion high up in a tower. Since it was so grainy it was hard to be sure of anything in the picture really and it sort of made Rodney's head spin.

The young man had studied that image over and over again. He was sure there was a secret buried in it somewhere and almost certainly the title held a clue, The Devil's in the Detail. Yes, somewhere in the detail of that picture was the truth.

No matter which way he turned it no further meaning could be found. He tried different coloured lights to no avail and even tried playing the record backwards for cryptic messages but there were none.

The young man couldn't sleep and his relationship with his parents worsened. His Dad, fed up with his son's spikiness, blurted out his feelings but immediately regretted it.

"For God's sake, Rodney, when are you actually going to get a girlfriend? Hell will have frozen over at this rate!" 

His work began to suffer at the motorbike spray shop too. He started ringing in sick a lot. When he next went in and Rodney seemed uninterested in his airbrush yet again, his shop boss was fuming and had harsh words with him. 

"Pull yourself together Rodney, I mean it or there'll be hell to pay!"

Rodney heeded his boss's warning. 

His job meant he could save up for his own motorbike and besides heavy metal, that's all that mattered. He'd get his own wheels and speed off into the blue yonder and kiss his fussy old folks good-fuckin-bye!

He'd left school at 16 and joined the shop as their apprentice and had only just learnt the a quarter of the ropes, helping the soonish-to-retire Big D, an old and mega-talented airbrush artist beloved by bikers for his fantasticly hellish style. Fans from around the country flocked to have their fuel-tanks sprayed by the big guy's wonderful hands.

Rodney had another two years to garner everything he could from his skilled mentor. Then he'd be 21 but he was sure struggling now. His obsession with the record cover was tilting his dreams towards dreadful scenarios of doom and despair and proper sleep eluded him as he battled with the enveloping dark.

"What's up with you young, Rodders?" Asked Big D, putting the final touches to a wild motif of a broom in chains on the tank of a huge black ornate chopper, finished off as always with his signature fiery capital D, which Rodney had once asked him about.

"Can't sleep!"

"How come? Girl trouble?"

"I wish! I've never had a girlfriend D. No, I'm having really bad dreams"

Big D put his airbrush down and sat next to his young trainee. He'd tended to him over the last year and in many ways he reminded D of many young souls, unsure of the future and what to believe in.

"What kind of dreams mate?"

"Well, there all to do with a damn record cover. I just can't get it out of my head!"

"Don't tell me, the Witches Prison's The Devil's in the Detail?"

Rodney stared at the older man.

"Yeah, how the hell did you know that?"

"Cos I'm having similar problems. After buying the record I just can't shake that picture!"

"The mansion behind the trees?"

"That's the one. That godforsaken bastard place!"

"Yeah, it is, a bastard! I'm fuckin' going out of my mind D!"

"Tell you what Rodney, help me finish this black chopper, we'll take it out to the customer, have a few scoops, put the world to fuckin' rights and catch a taxi back to shitsville. Waddaya say fella?"

"Sounds good to me Big D!"

The two sprayers, the artist and his apprentice, set to and had finished the bike's artwork off completely by close of play. It was a fabulous job, an enflamed king caressed by gorgons, all topped by the big guys's unforgettable flaming D.

D and Rodney straddled the huge sleek motorcycle and the younger rode pillion. He held onto Big D's leather jacket and they zoomed off into the mist-capped hills above Crippleswill to the summit of Gibbet Peak.

Rodney held fast as they banked round the bends on the slopes, getting higher with every turn. Despite it being winter, Big D felt unusually warm, almost hot, which the youngster put down to his quality gear. Rodney on the other hand was freezing. He'd never been this far into the uplands before and found the journey upwards both exhilarating and a little frightening at the same time.

He noticed two objects hanging half out of Big D's jacket pockets. A key with a fob with the words Witchen Kitchen scratched on, together with a roll of black and white camera film, which Rodney could see depicted a murky house remarkably similar to that on the record sleeve. 

"How strange!" He muttered to himself and felt a wave of goose pimples rise under his clammy bike leathers.

It was dusk when the pair reached the summit of Gibbet Peak. Big D pushed open a huge double gate, heaved the chopper inside and told Rodney to follow him, as he wheeled it round the corner of a spidery copse.

It was then that the young man stopped dead and simply stared at the scene before him. It was the very same as that pictured on the album he was so obsessed with, the eerie mansion behind the trees!

"D! Fuckin'hell, it's the record cover!"

"Oh yeah! Jeez! Well, I sort of knew mate, seeing as I was the one who took the photograph!"

"What? You? But how?"

"Easy really, I'm the band's manager!"

"Fuck! What! I don't understand! How the fuck can you be Witches Prison's manager? You're a fucking spray artist where I work!"

"Yeah, I'm that too Rodders! I'm a lot of things to a lot of people my young friend"

As they continued to walk towards to the mansion, Rodney noticed that the light in the top tower window was descending down into lower rooms the closer they got until it reached the window in a door at the side of the house, where they stood. A sign above the doorbell read, 

"Witchin Kitchen"

A tide of cold air rushed up Rodney's spine as his blood froze.

"Why have you got the key for this fuckin' door D?"

D turned to face the youngster. He seemed to grow in stature and spoke slowly.

"I told you Rodster, I'm the band's manager. Well, more of a warden really. This is where I keep them, so they can entertain me, my personal rock band, the Witches. I do so like this new-fangled heavy metal and the sisters are really good at it. They play for me in my prison for witches when I'm bored and their records keep my legion of followers docile. Followers like you Rodders!"

The young man struggled to stand and as he stumbled, the older man, now with wisps of smoke seemingly rising from his leathers, his face turning crimson, unlocked the back door and was greeted by a young haggard woman with long matted locks, who bowed before him.

"My liege!"

"Penta, why, my favourite groupie, how are the ladies today?"

"They are well my Lord, but will be better when they have eaten their special supper this Walpurg's Night. Did you bring it, willing, living and all?"

"What? The virgin? Yes, yes I did!"

The young crone rubbed her skeletal hands together, grabbed a huge butcher's cleaver and waited for the youngster.

Seemingly in a daze, all Rodney could hear was the loud crashing shrieking metal of his favourite band and appeared unaware as Big D handed him to the grinning Penta.

"Oh, and by the way Rodders, you asked what the D stood for in my name. The devil's in the detail my boy, the devil's in the detail!"

Big D locked the door behind him and entered into the prison proper, where an older witch took off his steaming leathers.

He put his cloven feet up on another kneeling crone as dreadful screams erupted from the kitchen.

"Ah, that'll be the fish being gutted for our supper!"

The Devil laughed and laughed as the band continued to play for their impatient master just like they did every single night.