“It’s a fundraiser,” the boss said.

“So why don’t you do it?” asked Sharleen.

“Because I’m not a witch,” he said.

“Neither am I.”

“But you’ll look a lot more like one than I ever will. Look, we get you a cute witch costume, and people vote for the best witch. The witch with most votes wins. That’s all there is to it.” Sharleen suspected there was more to it than that, but reluctantly agreed. Which is why she came out of her house that October morning in flashy makeup, pointy hat, black ribbon choker, long-sleeved mini-dress with a deeply-cut, laced up neckline, dark hose and high, shiny spike heels.

“Hey, Shar, you look great!” enthusiased her boss. He had on a sort of a pilgrim outfit, as did Shar’s sister. The three of them drove to the park where the Halloween Festival was to take place.

“Shouldn’t I ride in a tumbrel, or something?” asked Sharleen.

“Funny you should ask,” said her boss. They got out of his car a block from the park. There was a small crowd, including two other women done up more-or-less like Sharleen was: Alice, a waitress at the café, was done up in Mistress of the Dark style in a long slit dress with her hair piled up, while Jamie, an insurance agent, had purple hair, a red bustier, leather skirt and boots. They were also getting their hands tied behind their backs.

Before this fact completely registered, Sharleen’s boss had come up behind her, pulled her arms back, and was tying her wrists. “Hey! What?”

“You’re just going for a little ride, Shar,” he said as he knotted the cord. He turned to talk to the mayor, leaving Sharleen by herself. She walked over to the other two women.

“Double, double, toil and trouble,” intoned Jamie.

“What?” said Alice, who obviously had slept through Shakespeare in high school. She twisted her arms around, trying to pull her hands free.

“Did anybody say anything to either of you about being tied?” asked Sharleen.

“Not until they were tying me,” replied Jamie. “Ah, well, not the first time.”

“First time what?” asked Alice.

“First time I’ve been tied, silly,” replied Jamie.

“This way, ladies,” the mayor said. Someone had come up with a two-wheeled farm cart. Straw covered the floor. The three bound witches were boosted up into it. Then, bracing themselves as well as they could with their hands tied, they were wheeled off to the Publick Square.

On the square, between the hot dog stand and the pony rides, were three round fence posts, about six feet high, nailed and braced. Small boxes stood in front of them. A booth was off to the side, with a sign reading, “Buy Wood to Burn Your Favorite Witch!” over it. A pile of sticks lay behind the counter.

A small crowd gathered as the three women rolled up. At the encouragement of the Mayor and Sharleen’s boss, they started cat-calling: “Burn, witches!” “Look at the legs on that one!” and other less-flattering cracks. The cart stopped, and the three, stepping carefully in heels with their hands tied, were helped down. They walked across to the three stakes, and were boosted up onto the boxes in front.

“Hey! Boss! What’s that about ‘Burning?’” asked Sharlene.

“That’s how people are going to vote,” he smiled as he shook out some pieces of chain. “People will buy firewood for your pyre. One dollar a piece, six for five dollars. The witch with the most wood, er votes, wins!”

Sharleen heard chains clinking. Her hands were untied, only to be re-tied around the back of the stake – fortunately not too tightly. Then light chain was draped over her shoulders, criss-crossed between her breasts, and wrapped around her waist, held in place with an “S” hook. Another piece of chain was wrapped around her ankles and the stake. Suddenly she wished she had worn more comfortable heels. She glanced at her companions. They actually looked quite fetching, chained to their respective stakes. Perhaps, thought, Sharleen, some fella would see her and look her up later.

“Hear Ye! Hear Ye! The preparations for the witch-burning will now begin! Buy your firewood at Ye Olde Woode Boothe, right there. The fires will be lit at Three of the Clock!” Three! It was only 10 now. Sharleen was going to have to stand on high heels, chained to a stake, for five hours! She should have negotiated for rest breaks.

The day flowed on like slow molasses. People bought sticks, then came over and placed them at her feet. Little kids were nervous about it, looking up at her as if she was Baba Yaga. A small group of Boy Scouts spent considerable time re-arranging her pile of wood. She wondered if they were really trying to build an efficient bonfire like they said or were just spending as much time as possible looking up her short skirt. Teen punks, of both sexes, whispered crude comments. Shoot, Sharleen thought, I’m not that much older than they are! One old guy ran his hand across her foot and up her leg as he placed his stick on her pile. She couldn’t even kick him with her ankles chained down. At least, she noticed, he was an equal-opportunity dirty old man – he repeated the move on Alice and Jamie.

Sweat was running down Sharlene’s face, and trickling down between her breasts. She twisted her bound hands, wishing she could wipe it away. Insects buzzed around her face. She was not getting paid enough for this—but, then again, she wasn’t getting paid at all.

They had been chained to their stakes for over three hours when there was a sudden commotion on the other side of the park. The crowd turned from the three chained women. Questions were asked, then shouted. There was a general movement away from their end of the park. Even the two sponsors left their wood-selling booth to go see what was going on. In surprisingly short time, they were only people at their end of the park.

“How are you doing?” asked Jamie.

“All right,” acknowledged Sharleen. “I’m almost ready to get burned, if it means I could finally scratch my nose.”

“Careful what you wish for,” said Alice, with a hint of fear in her voice. From around the corner came a man, in a long cape and boots. A Pilgrim hat covered his face. He carried a torch. The three chained women watched, unable to move. Stopping at the pony ride, he gathered handfuls of dry straw, then came towards the stakes.

“Who are you? Go away!”

He stuffed the straw down between the sticks piled at the feet of the three faux witches. Then suddenly the torch was blazing—Sharleen didn’t see him light it. Walking back to Jamie, he thrust the torch into the straw. With a crackling, it burst into flame. Then he lit the pile at Alice’s feet. Finally he came over to Sharleen, last in line.

“Wait! What are you doing! Don’t!” shouted Sharleen.

A strange, deep voice answered. “They would have untied you before they lit the faggots. Witches must burn!” With a swirl of his cape, he strode away.

“HELP! HELP! FIRE!” yelled Sharleen. She could hear Alice and Jamie screaming too, over the crackle of flames. A wave of heat licked up her legs, and she jerked, but the chains held her feet to the fire. She apparently had many fans—the pile of sticks beneath her reached above her high heels, and covered a circle five feet around. Frantically, she twisted her hands behind her back. The acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils. Reaching around with her bound hands, she managed to touch the “S” hook that held the chains on her body. Fumbling, straining, sucking her breath in, she—just—almost—couldn’t manage to get it loose.

Suddenly, she realized. The flames were—dying down? She looked. The fires around Jamie and Alice were subsiding. And now there were shouts, running feet, and someone was playing a blessed fire extinguisher around the wood she was perched over.

“What happened?”

“Some man—big guy, Pilgrim costume—lit the wood—would’ve burned…”

“All that wood was treated with fireproofing,” the fire chief said. “I wasn’t taking any chances on anyone getting burned on my watch. Are you all right?” Sharleen, now free of her stake, stood on the ground, shakily. She kicked off her heels and let her feet relax onto the ground.

“He created a diversion, then came around here to stage a real witch-burning,” the fire chief went on. “Heck of a thing.”

“So, who won?” asked the mayor’s wife. She was looking at the piles of wood at the bottom of the stakes.

“I did!” chorused the three witches.