Grim Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  He shoved her back to him and followed Rhino back to the front door.

  * * * *

  Nico rose, giving up on trying to make friends with Matilda’s skittish goats, and perhaps on any niceties.

  “I mean, in all those books you sent, I ain’t seen nothing says it can’t be done.”

  Matilda was speechless. She released the goats in her distraction, and they pranced a few steps from her, whining their unease in eerily human patterns.

  “You want to…to skin someone, and…then…”

  “Some kind soul would donate their birthday suit, see.” said Nico nonchalantly. “Then she’d come back, inside of said suit.”

  Matilda regarded each Firehead. “Such a thing…there would be no redemption for any of us,” she whispered. “Ever.”

  “But it can be done.” Pipsqueak came and put his arm around her shoulders, like a condescending brother who didn’t really love her. “Right, Tilly?”

  “I…” she waved her hands across each other. “I can’t do that. It’s…” she met Pipsqueak’s contemptuous gaze with utter sincerity, even though she knew she was about to lie. “No. It’s not even possible.”

  Nico beheld all the fields surrounding Matilda’s farm. He blew a slow stream of smoke. “I read a lot, back in lockup,” he said. “Lot of books, lot of faces.”

  Giggling as though giddy with anticipation, Aura ran at the two goats yet again, just to watch them scatter.

  “The books told me magic is damn near limitless, long as you’re willing to pay the price,” Nico continued. “The faces, they told me that lies are a kind of magic. Did you know that?”

  Smiling, Pipsqueak maintained his faux-friendly side hug, as Nico finished. “But a stronger magic is fear.”

  Giving up on the goats, Aura twisted a batch of thistle hanging from the barn’s crossbeam and let it spin back the other way.

  “I’m willing to pay the price. And I’m willing to pay it to you.” Nico’s calm and even tone felt like a knife to her throat.

  Knife—she fingered the athame in her pocket.

  “But if you won’t accept, then you can pay the price.” He faced away from her. “Ain’t it weird how that works, Jiggy?”

  “Weird, man.” The fourth of the bikers had followed at a distance and now stood a few yards from the barn doors, watching her.

  “Now, I’ve been good to you.” Nico motioned his cigarette at her sweater pocket, the cash there. “Hell, I already talked you up around the pen; sent you some business, probably. And all I want is to bring back my baby. Is that really so goddamn evil?” he asked.

  “It’s not just about you or…any of us.” Matilda felt like her voice was coming through a tiny radio speaker. “It’s about consequences that could last…forever.”

  Nico laughed, and then everybody else did too. “Told you, lady. That’s on me.”

  “It’s not!” Matilda made herself loud and clear this time. “You don’t know what you’re asking!”

  Nico blew a breath through gritted teeth and drew the Luger from the back of his waistband. As he brought it to her head. Pipsqueak released his embrace and side-stepped away quickly.

  “I’m betting you will,” Nico said, still utterly calm.

  Matilda realized that the path she had chosen, the dark gray path, was nearing its end, and she would soon pay her penance. She wasn’t ready for that, but magic this black…it was for the remorseless, the amoral practitioner. “Please, you need to study more, to learn what magic truly is.”

  “It is what I say it is.” Nico thumbed back the hammer. “Now. You gonna do it?”

  “Okay!” Matilda said, tears welling.

  “Hell, that wasn’t so ha—”

  Matilda drew the athame as she spun fast, lunging at Jiggy in the same move.

  “Whoa Nelly!” Pipsqueak cried, as Jiggy leaned back, almost casually, and caught Matilda’s arcing wrist. He crushed it in his big mitt till she dropped the blade. He pulled her toward him with a grunt, then shoved her on her ass. The goats cried out.

  Matilda rose quickly and ran toward her house, knowing she wouldn’t make it far.

  Her best hope was to die as close to her home as possible.

  She was struck hard in the back, driven to the ground. In the same instant came the cracking report of Nico’s Luger.

  An insidious sensation, somewhere between hot and numb, blossomed in her midsection. She smelled earth, grass and gunpowder, soon overpowered by the taste of blood. She thought of her life, her embrace of the craft’s easy way, of how she’d seen others on her path fall into massive pits of karma, far earlier in life than her.

  Barely even aware of it, she silently uttered an ancient Tibetan verse, unlocked from her subconscious by trauma.

  She thought of her goods in the barn, hoping these highway hoodlums would never possess the knowledge and training to make use of them.

  She thought of her goats and hoped they had gone to hide somewhere safe and warm until someone could come along and take care of them. Mr. Winchell, perhaps. Then she despaired, as wet noses snuffled frantically against her face.

  “Go!” she croaked weakly. “Ssskit!” But they only trotted a few feet before stopping to bleat at her, confused. She could not muster the strength to truly startle them.

  Matilda closed her eyes and pushed herself up to her knees. She raised her arms high like lightning rods, ready to receive her penalty from the universe. “Kill me. Quickly, please,” said her outer voice, while the inner repeated the archaic chant.

  Nico and Pipsqueak, now standing on either side of her, burst out laughing.

  “Jesus H,” said Nico. “I thought my Ruthie was a drama queen.”

  Nico kicked Matilda in the back, smashing her face-first into yellow leaves and brown grass. Consciousness grew fickle, threatened to leave.

  The goats came to her again, terror in their calls; then, one of them became shrill and panicked, rising away from her.

  “Gotcha!”

  No…

  “Quick hands, Pip,” praised Nico. “Hold onto it.”

  Matilda rose, only a few inches. “Leave my goats alone!” She only wished she had been more devoted to the Darkness; enough to call up a rescuing—avenging!—demon with a mere venomous syllable.

  “Wait!” called Aura. “I wanna finish the bitch!”

  “Whatever,” said Nico. “I ain’t wasting no more goddamn bullets on her.” He squatted and yanked Matilda’s hair, pulling her close to him to show Matilda her own battered face in his mirror lenses; the blood running from the corners of her quivering mouth.

  “But I’m done with this here cig,” he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and holding it straight up. He slowly inched it toward her face.

  The giggling Aura held her hands together in gleeful anticipation, beaming as Nico pushed the ember into Matilda’s forehead and ground it. Matilda didn’t scream at the searing dot of pain, only because she was too drained.

  Pipsqueak and Aura laughed, then Jiggy knelt beside her. “Hey don’t forget this!” He showed her the athame just before he poked her cheek with it, just deep enough to draw blood and a squeal.

  Sniggering, he jabbed her a few more times.

  “Let me!” said Aura, motioning for the knife with eager fingers. She tittered like a stoned college girl as she took the athame. “We’ll take good care of your little baby goat,” mocked the girl. “Tender and juicy care.” She sunk the blade into Matilda’s upper back.

  Matilda felt blood draining from the gunshot wound by the ounce. She wanted to let go—but cruel despair for her goats kept her alive.

  Aura crouched on all fours to watch the life draining from the witch’s face, cocking her head to the side like a curious puppy.

  Matilda touched her hand; a slight gesture that Aura initially thought was a weak
beseeching. As Matilda withdrew, Aura frowned. It hadn’t been that at all.

  “Looks like we got ourselves some new digs,” Nico said to everyone. “Aura, round up that other billy and let’s settle in. Pip, toss this witch bitch in the ditch.” He allowed for laughter from his crew. “Better yet, lock her in her gingerbread house. Don’t need no coyotes or vultures giving us away. Jig, head back to camp and get the others.”

  Matilda went black with the image of Aura’s confused frown fading in her head. But now she was free of any compassion, and in her last seconds of lucidity, she roared vengeance in her head, infusing it into the inner chant.

  * * * *

  Rebecca and Radley had snuck to the door to listen. Now they scattered like mice as Hobie and Rhino lumbered out, their faces even harder than before.

  Candace had stayed with Emera, holding the knife behind her back. Was she hiding it? There was no way to know if the Dietrichs, in their duress, had registered seeing it, but the motorcycle man would remember.

  She was hiding it from herself. From someone inside her.

  Rhino walked to her and leaned down, smiling. “Wish I could let you keep it, little lady.” He seemed both sincere and threatening. “But it’s my good luck charm.”

  He extended his hand. Candace knew without doubt that she could—and should—stab the big man right then and there, and probably save everybody a lot of misery.

  But she didn’t. She put it in his hand. He flipped it caught it, winked at her and re-sheathed it in his boot. “I bet you can find another one.”

  It was a few minutes before the Dietrichs came out, seeming twenty years older since the arrival of the leather-and-denim-clad visitors. Mr. Dietrich clapped and issued a weak whistle, ordering the children in a wavering voice to come in for dinner.

  Chapter 10

  The Hidden

  “Three…two…one!” Stuart and DeShaun braked, sliding their bikes to a simultaneous stop, a feat they both found endlessly satisfying.

  Walking into Home Stock, both drew from their jeans pockets shopping lists from their mothers. These mid-week grocery trips had become a ritual when Dennis had started drinking again back around February and could no longer be counted on to take them for a more comprehensive weekend shopping trip.

  “Gates be opened!” Stuart pronounced, pretending the automatic doors responded to his magical command and horn-fingered gesture.

  “Corny,” DeShaun said, taking a shopping basket from the stack.

  “I’ll get two milks and meet you at the comics rack.”

  “Right. I got the lunch meats.”

  “Boys!” It was Miss Stella from the church, pushing a cart loaded with communion supplies: grape juice and matzo crackers.

  “Glad I caught you!” She was breathless and haggard; not the poised lady of whom they often found themselves thinking mildly improper thoughts.

  “What can we do for you, Miss Stella?”

  “I remember you doing grave rubbings on”—she seemed reticent to say the name—“the town founder.”

  “Yeah, we did a whole unit.”

  “How would you feel about digging a little deeper into all that?”

  DeShaun raised an eyebrow. Stuart frowned.

  “I know,” she acknowledged. “Who wants extra school work? Thing is, it’s really important. And I’ll pay you.”

  “Jeez, really?” DeShaun said. “What’s the big deal, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “That would take a while. I understand there are some materials at the library.” She opened her purse and took out her wallet. “Anything at all you can find on the church, the cemetery…”

  “We’ll do it for free,” Stuart offered. “It’ll give me an excuse to go there and check on something anyways.”

  “One other thing,” she lowered her voice. “Please don’t mention it around too much. Just for now.”

  They agreed, and when she thanked them and moved on, DeShaun frowned at Stuart. “What if we’re getting ourselves into some crazy soap opera type stuff?”

  “When are we not?”

  * * * *

  “Leave that boy alone!” McGlazer screamed.

  But the scream was only a thought, no matter how hard McGlazer focused it.

  In a comfortable corner of his mind, McGlazer had languished in his office with the memory of his highest highs; that tenuous Moment when the alcohol made his head and heart and hands feel good and strong. He graciously accepted this buzz, for however long it would last. It wouldn’t be long.

  He had relished the Moment and even, strangely, prayed gratitude for it. The problem was, the Moment had one drawback, and this was that a shred of his sense of decency lingered outside the party to keep him in check. The Moment could not wander beyond it.

  As he unwillingly walked up the hill he slowly, silently, even painfully dropped to his knees to halt, again and again—but only within his head. The possessor used McGlazer’s legs to make his way toward the mourner, stretching McGlazer’s mouth into a painfully broad crescent.

  “Get away, Dennis!” McGlazer projected. “Run!”

  “Your resistance will cost ye, Reverend Man.” The voice was getting clearer as the presence settled into the nooks of McGlazer’s mind. “If you won’t sit in your cell and take your poison, a visit from the harridan will set ye right.”

  Then, McGlazer found himself in his office, tugging at the door knob—just before the door smashed in on him as if bashed with a battering ram manned by a dozen templars. He found himself lying on the ground in searing pain, blood filling his vision.

  In the doorway was Ragdoll Ruth, her thick pancake makeup splotched and cracked, a giant pistol in her hand. She fingered the cross necklace on her bosom until it glowed with supernatural light. She rose into the air and came down astraddle his groin with a smashing, raping impact. “You are a weak and worthless failure! God hates you, you wretched liar! He rejects you!”

  She lowered her razor-filled mouth toward his face and screeched her demented echoing condemnations. “I will rejoice to behold your hellfire-ravaged body for all of eternity!” She smashed the butt of the massive handgun against his skull, over and over, battering to nothing his efforts at fighting the invader’s will.

  With each fresh burst of pain, McGlazer felt his will, his righteousness crumble, the spaces filled by the need to drink.

  Just as abruptly as she had entered—just like magick—the zealot stood and left, politely easing the restored office door closed behind her.

  McGlazer peered up at his desk, knowing what he would see there, and glad for it. He would free himself, and he would undo any damage done to those outside. He would, damn it all!

  But first, he needed to gather his strength, nurse his pain, calm his nerves.

  He struggled to a stand, propped himself up comfortably at his desk and lifted the squat glass of amber fluid waiting there beside a fat bottle of the same.

  “Which do you prefer?” asked the powerful voice in its archaic accent.

  McGlazer pressed his mind’s eyelids shut, knowing he could not ever truly hide from the unholy acts in which he was complicit.

  * * * *

  “Bet you’d be real proud of your biggest boy right now, old man,” Dennis slurred, extending his bottle of Diamante toward the gravestone that bore his father’s name, as if to offer a swig.

  “Of course, I can’t exactly bitch and moan, like you’re telling me to grow up and get a real job.” Dennis set the bottle down in front of the stone, mocking something but not really knowing or caring what. “You were always a real sitcom dad, werentcha, Pop?”

  Dennis had not been to the cemetery in many months; not since just after his last visit with his sponsor, Reverend McGlazer, for some good hard heart-to-heart, and mediocre coffee.

  “And yet, here I am; this pretend punk rocker
, whose only gripe is that his ever-lovin’ daddy bought him a car and a guitar, then buzzed off to the Great Beyond.”

  Dennis laughed and fell back to watch the sky swim.

  The Chalk Outlines had been well on their way to a decent level of success a year ago. Record company suit Cordelia Cantor—rest her soul—had come to see them play their set atop the Grand Illusion Cinemas; the centerpiece of the Pumpkin Parade.

  Everything was peaches. They were on the money with every sick note. Then the whole crowd had gone violently apeshit, not because of the devil’s music they played, but thanks to that demented bitch Ragdoll Ruth and her pocketful of poison potion.

  One flying bottle to the head later, and Dennis was taking the most hellacious stagedive this side of Eddie Vedder. So much for that Big Break.

  “Ma hid my keys, by the by,” he told his father’s grave. “Didn’t know I had an extra set hidden. I just wanted you to know she’s trying, bless her soul.”

  He sat up and took the bottle. “Oh yeah. I keep forgetting. Souls are not a real thing. You’d know that better than anybody though, huh?”

  Dennis downed a few ounces and hissed though the burn. “Except there is…just one thing that I…just can’t seem to slap together, Dad.”

  He considered his next sentence carefully, as if he believed he was speaking to a reasoning sentient being. “See, our town founder,” Dennis pointed the bottle at Bennington’s towering memorial obelisk some sixty yards away, “he managed to put in an appearance last year, or so say a handful of witnesses—including Stewie.”

  “I gotta ask myself, ya know?” Dennis leaned way forward, like an interrogating detective. “Why can that long-dead dude pop up to do his thing, and yet…you’re a no show. Can you help me out on that?”

  The stone marker could not.

  “Didn’t think so.” Dennis stood. “Well, I’m off to drink and drive, so, might see you soon anyway. Except…I won’t. Right?”

  Dennis stumbled away. “Right.”

  “Hello Dennis,” came McGlazer’s voice, from just to his right.