The other day I was on my way to Kendallville to get my PowerBall tickets. It's been unseasonably warm here for the past few days, so a light rain was falling and the overcast sky cast a gray pallor over the Indiana landscape. I turned north on Highway 9 and, after traveling a couple miles, I noticed a figure standing about a fifty yards up ahead - a female figure. The image was almost ghostly, as the fog shrouded and softened her feminine outline. Petite and apparently well-endowed, she had long brown hair, now dripping and dissheveled from the rain. I thought to myself that she couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds soaking wet. Doing the math, I surmised that, at this very moment, there was still a good chance I could hoist this woman above my head, should I find this necessary once she was in the truck.
Now, I normally make it a policy not to pick up hitchhikers, but in this case, I was willing to make an exception. I pulled over and waited while she gathered her few belongings and put them in the back seat. As she climbed into the cab, I thought about tossing her stuff back out the door. It seems she was much prettier when viewed through the fog and from a reasonable distance. Her clothes were soaked with rain, though, and since I'm a nice guy, I reconsidered. She fastened her seat belt and asked me for a cigarette. I pointed to a pack on the dash, tossed her some matches and reached behind me to retrieve some napkins from an old McDonald's bag. "Dry yourself off," I told her as I handed her the napkins. "What brings you out on a day like this, anyway?"
"I just got out of jail," she said. Well, now; I had to admit, I didn't see that one coming. She went on to explain how she was being set up by the CIA to take the fall for a bogus shoplifting charge. I began looking for a safe place to pull over, but made the mistake of asking why our government's intelligence agency would want to do that to her. "Because I'm a witch," she replied, rather matter-of-factly.
Several things were very clear to me now, the most important of which being why I had initially adopted my policy of not picking up hitchhikers. She was insane; I picked up on that almost right away. Another thing which seemed disturbingly obvious was her desire to continue the conversation. "You don't believe me, do you?" she asked.
I debated whether I should be honest with her. They say that if one challenges a delusional person, one may not live to tell about it, depending on the types of weaponry lying about. On the other hand, I wanted this criminal out of my truck, and I felt that a friendly demeanor might be construed as an invitation to share my company. Deciding to risk it, I replied, "No, I don't."
This was the point, as near as I can pinpoint it, at which my fate was sealed.
"The sheriff didn't believe me, either," she hissed. "I put a curse on him because he wouldn't let me go. Wait 'til his grandchildren are born; then he'll know I was serious!"
"Take it easy," I said quietly. "I'm not saying that you don't have some abnormal... I mean paranormal traits, but witches are like fairies, leprechauns and Eskimos; they just don't exist."
"Haven't you ever heard of Wicka?" she asked, "It's a religion made up of witches."
"I think you mean, "a religion of made-up witches"," I mumbled. "I'm sorry," I told her, "but I've never heard of it. There's a big difference between a religion and a cult."
"It's not a cult," she insisted, "we're all over the world; we're an organized religion."
"I seriously doubt that," I countered. By now I was immersed in the discussion, and oblivious to the peril in which I had placed myself. Consequently, I kept running my mouth. "If what you say is true," I continued, "the night skies would be full of witches flying into each other; people would be dropping like flies from all of your "spells;" you'd all be hounded by the tabloids and papparazzi looking for tomorrow's headlines."
"We don't ride broomsticks and stir cauldrons by the light of a full moon," she chided, "and we're not all bad witches. I'll bet witchcraft has affected your life and you don't even know it. Haven't you ever had anything happen to you that you couldn't explain?"
"Sure," I said, "I can't explain why you're still in my truck. I'll take you as far as Highway 6, and then you're on your own."
"But I live in Kendallville," she protested. "Isn't that where you're going?"
"Yes, it is," I told her, "but I don't normally pick up hitchhikers, and I never pick up witches, so I think it's best if you find another ride."
"I'll put a curse on you, too!" she cried.
"I'll take my chances," I told her.
"What if I could prove to you that I'm a witch?" she asked.
"And just how would you go about doing that? Are you going to turn me into a toad?"
"I could," she said, "if that's what it takes to convince you."
"Give it your best shot," I told her. "If you're truly a witch, go ahead and turn me into something. But use your imagination; a toad is too easy. Turn me into something I wouldn't expect."
So she grabbed the steering wheel and turned me into a telephone pole.
Needless to say, I am no longer the skeptic I once was.