By The Pricking of My Thumbs

When the clock on the wall struck twelve-o’-clock, just before Mrs. Hutchins took lunch, there were twenty-one people in the room. Mrs. Hutchins, of course, whose blue eyes still sparkled with a vigor and youth most women sixty years younger than her desperately sought after, and twenty mannequins, ten male and ten female, whose eyes were covered with white paint, stuck in unmoving stares. Each of these wore a different wig, handmade by Mrs. Hutchins herself.1

The former of these sat before a wooden table, snipping every strand of hair in a large pile down to approximately five inches. Her arthritis had gotten worse recently, but the snipping of her scissors never missed a beat. It was a sound you got used to quickly—like the ticking of a clock or the hum of a fan—and didn’t notice, but missed horribly when it was gone.2

The remaining twenty were arranged in a circle that was only interrupted by a wooden door, directly across the shop from the working woman, and by the woman herself. Every mannequin was facing the center of the room, as if they were expecting something interesting to happen at any moment. For now, however, all they had to watch was a thick red rug and the tornado of dust that raged in the air above it, stirred by the frequent drafts that snuck around the windowpanes.3

The door creaked open and slammed shut, sending a blast of wind that made Mrs. Hutchins shiver and set down her scissors. There were twenty-three people in the room; the old woman, her mannequins, and two broad-shouldered, muscular customers. Each of the newcomers wore a grey deerstalker’s cap, and the shorter of the two was at least six feet, four inches tall.4

“Hello, young men.” Greeted Mrs. Hutchins, standing up and shaking their hands, in spite of her knee’s grinding protest. Their thick hands enveloped hers completely, and they shook with a vice-like grip that made it clear that they would not treat her any differently because of her age. “How may I help you today?”5

The taller of the two men stood beside one of several light bulbs that hung bare from the ceiling. She could not see his face clearly, but nearly gasped when he pulled of his cap. His hair was a vibrant orange, nearly outshining the light bulb. It was arranged in many, tight curls. 6

I wonder if I could stick a pencil in his hair, thought Mrs. Hutchins, to see whether or not the curls would support it. She wrote it off as and impolite question, but it remained in her mind. The man—and his companion, for that matter—looked incredibly familiar. 7

“My name is Nathan Lane.” Stated the taller man. The other removed his cap, revealing an identical head of hair. “And this is my brother, David.”8

“It’s a pleasure to meet you two.”9

“Well,” continued Nathan, in a tone that suggested he had been insulted. “We need wigs.”10

Obviously, thought Mrs. Hutchins, laughing to herself.11

“It’s a pity. You could donate your hair—I’d love to make a wig out of it. God, I must sound like a crazy old widower. I’m a widow, just not crazy.”12

Nathan gave a half-hearted attempt at a smile, and began to pace in small circles.13

“I am an actor,” he sighed. “So is David, and—“14

“—I knew you looked familiar!” exclaimed Mrs. Hutchins, snapping her fingers and regretting it immediately.15

“—And our troupe is performing Macbeth. I play a ghost- or an ‘apparition’- and need a gray wig. My hair,” (he flipped his head slightly, so the curls bounced off each other) “as you can see, would be a distraction to the audience.”16

Laughing, Mrs. Hutchins reached up and patted the man on the shoulder. Was she really that short, now? “I have seen that play at least fifteen times, mostly with my late husband Albert. He was murdered ten years ago—on his sixtieth birthday—and I stopped watching tragedies. Anyways, the best productions have always used white wigs.”17

Nathan nodded, agreeing, and David walked towards the lady, making her feel smaller than before.18

“I’ll be playing the lead role. Just a brown wig will do.” He laughed. “Our troupe was just established, so we haven’t collected many costume pieces. Actually, this will be our first production.”19

“Well,” sighed Mrs. Hutchins, leading Nathan and David to a brown-haired male mannequin in the corner. “I may have to come and watch the show. When will you be performing? (Try this on). It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a good show.”20

Both men exchanged glances, and mouthed words to each other.21

“Every day in the last two weeks of April.” Stated David. “We have to wait five months, because it’s an outdoor performance. Still, we are very rushed and need these wigs as fast as possible.” 22

Rolling her eyes at the men and the impatience that most humans displayed daily, Mrs. Hutchins pulled the wig off the mannequin, and was reminded of a painting she had seen of an Indian scalping an American soldier in the nineteenth century. There was considerably more blood in the photograph, though, and the mannequin’s docile expression did not change into the twisted, horrified look of agony that appeared on the soldier.23

“This will serve the purpose.” Stated David, adjusting his new head of hair. “Do you have a white wig for Nathan?”24

Mrs. Hutchins nodded and scurried to the back of the shop. Putting her hand on a bras doorknob, she smiled and said “I believe I saw one in the cellar this morning. Make yourselves comfortable. There are some chairs in the corner—the one by the blonde woman. I’ll be back here in about five minutes.”25

She opened the door, slid inside, and began to walk slowly down a long, narrow, flight of stairs. Each step creaked louder than her knees, which were telling her to sit down as soon as she could.26

At the bottom of the stairs waited her life—namely a bed, a nearly empty bookshelf, a large chest, and a reading table covered in magazines and newspapers. She did not need much else—she ate at restaurants and didn’t use a television.27

Breathing heavily, though she did not yet know why, Mrs. Hutchins walked more quickly to the table and selected a newspaper.28

Murderers Wanted29

It said, and below that:30

Raymond and Elton Allis have been found guilty of fourteen murders across the U.s. They are most easily recognized by their red curly hair. The two men are probably traveling together and in disguise.31

Below this was a picture of the two men that now stood in her shop, waiting for her to return. 32

Of course, she thought, they looked familiar. She had seen their faces on every one of the newspapers, which she did not read, for the last month. They would not kill her, she knew, because she was helping them disguise themselves.33

And, though she knew the men were criminals, she could not bring herself to dial for the police. Instead, she got up and strode over to the chest and held her breath. When she opened it the smell of a brown, broken, poorly preserved skeleton came at her in the form of a tidal wave.34

“Albert...” she sighed. “What do I do? I feel some sympathy for them, you know. My picture was under that same title, you know, when I was younger. God, I don’t want to stop those young men from setting up a nice respectable business when they’re old, like me.”35

Mrs. Hutchins went back upstairs and finished business with the two men calling themselves Nathan and David Lane.36

___________________________________________________________37

Ralph Matheson strode into the shop a week later. He was a bald man, with a birthmark covering the left side of his face.38

Explaining to Mrs. Hutchins that he had been undergoing chemotherapy and needed a wig, he plucked the hair strait off of a mannequin. The wig he selected was the same shade of orange as the flame on a birthday candle. He tapped a few of the curls and watched them bounce up and down.39

“That’s one of my favorite wigs!” giggled Mrs. Hutchins as he paid her. She set down her scissors and accepted a wad of cash. “But it has a twin that I’ll give you for free. I wouldn’t dream of selling only a partial set.”40

Just before turning away, Ralph noticed something strange.41

“Is that blood on your scissors, Mrs. Hutchins?” he asked. There was just a small bit on the tip of the shining metal blade.42

“Oh, yes.” She replied. “I pricked my thumb a day ago, while cutting this hair.”43

Ralph nodded and thanked her for throwing in the extra wig. As he left the store, a line from Macbeth crossed his mind:44

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.45