The Writers' Circle

I stand. Staring at myself, in the darkness. 12 candles surrounding me. I am performing a ritual. The ritual of Bloody Mary. My forehead is sweaty and warm. I think I have a fever. I have to go get some medicine. No! I can't back out now. I don't believe in her, but she just might come. 
It's simple. Say Bloody Mary, I killed your son 4 times and spin around, and she is summoned. Apparently.

Mary was a chambermaid in the 1900s, who's son was killed by a mystery highway robber. She was unable to have a new son as she had no partner, so she went mad. Her hair turned grey and straw-like at the age of 19. She practiced Satanism and was convinced she was the Antichrist. She was thought to have been told by the Devil himself to practice a voodoo spell to kill all children to take away the pain of her own loss.
It was called speculum iuguolo or mirror killer, and ever since she has killed children all over the world.

I am still planted to the bathroom floor, beside a pool of urine and hair. I begin to spin, my heart thumping, like a baby kicking at a woman's stomach. I clear my throat.
'Bloody Mary, I killed your son,' One.
'Bl- Bloody Mary I killed your son,' Two.
'Bloody Mary I killed your son,' Three.
I take a deep breath and choke on what's left of the saliva in my mouth.
'Bloody Mary I killed-' I can just see her, hiding in the corner of the mirror, waiting for me to utter these last two words.
'Your sou,' Last word
'Son,' Nothing. Good. Still nothing. Great. Still nothing. Amazing. A scream. Supercalifragilist- Crap. 
Blood begins to drip from the corners of the mirror. 
I dimly feel warmth on my groins as I wet myself.

Wait. I don't need to worry. She comes from the mirror. My mirror is small. If I'm right she'll come out as some kind of midget Mary.
Her face emerges from the mirror. Haha! It's small!
Again, crap. Her face begins to largen.
'You can stop growing your head now. No one likes a big head.' I mutter a small titter. It's no time for jokes Ben. 
Her face is grey with gashes and cuts. I'm starting to see why she had no partner. 
Her hair is chalkboard black, with a hint of red. Blood. It drips from her huge fringe like a tap.
An arm emerges. Long, grey fingernails with white bits in them. Not enough calcium. They swing and gash at my face. I flail my arms to shoo her away.
Her whole body throws itself from the mirror and reforms while she hits the hair ridden floor.
She forces her fingernails into the side of my head and pushes her head towards mine. Her breath stings my nasal passage. She throws me to the floor and begins to gash at my eyes.

I wish I could tell you that I fought the good fight and Bloody Mary let me be. I wish I could tell you that- but the bathroom is no fairy tale world.

                                                  THE END