Shepherd's Warning

by Cailyn Lloyd

  Laura lay on the bed and despite the nebulous clutter of thoughts and anxieties in her head, quickly fell asleep. She was aware, as her mind drifted to the unconscious, of a vague unease without name. It lay there, silent and brooding, like storm clouds in the distance, growing darker and more menacing.

  Sometime later, she startled from deep sleep and sat upright in bed, her neck wet with sweat. Someone had been chasing her, a shadowy figure, a faceless dream thing. Her phone rang. The room was dark. How long had she been asleep? She reached and clicked the green icon.

  “Laura, it’s Sally.” Her voice excited, her words rapid fire. “I think I figured something out.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink it, Laura still groggy from sleep. “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you over the phone, you wouldn’t understand…well. No, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Sally, I have to know now!” Laura was now very much awake.

  A brief pause; an intake of breath. “You need to watch out for your sister-in-law.”

  “What? Ashley? Why?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all I’ve got. If I get more, I’ll call you back.”

  Laura sat for a minute, stunned, thinking that was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. Ashley a threat? The woman was losing it. She had just talked to Ashley. No matter. Time to pack. As she stood, she felt dizzy, felt the room cant sideways in an all too familiar sensation.

  Here it comes—

  The image was more than a flash, longer than subliminal. It was technicolor vivid. In it, Sally lay bloodied on the floor.

  Laura lost her balance and fell sideways to the floor. Lay dazed for a moment before her thoughts crystallized.

  Sally was in some immediate danger, the nature of it unclear to Laura. She needed to warn her. Now.

  Laura tapped Sally’s number. She answered after two rings.

  “Laura? What is it?”

  “Sally, get out of your house, now!”

  “What?”

  “Leave! Go to the White Birch.”

  There was a crash in the background and muffled sounds.

  “What are you doing here?” Sally was no longer talking into the phone.

  “Get out of here! Laura, it’s—”

  There was a loud thump as her phone hit the floor, then a piercing scream, vivid and chilling—almost childlike—then silence.

  Stunned and terrified, Laura stared at her phone, then screamed in frantic pleas, “Sally! Sally! Answer me!”

  Dana came running up the stairs. “Mom! What the hell is wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” Laura was nearly hysterical. “I was talking to Sally, then she screamed—”

  “What?”

  “I—I think someone hurt her—killed her.”

  Forty-Eight

  Shepherd found Lucas MacKenzie’s number and tapped it into his phone. The phone rang five times and went to voicemail. Shepherd ended the call. A voicemail was a poor means to relay the urgency of the situation, a situation Shepherd believed was critical.

  He changed his mind, called again, and spoke in a breathless rush. “Mr. MacKenzie, this is Doctor Shepherd. We spoke a few weeks ago regarding your book. I’ve completed the translation, and I need to speak with you urgently. I need to warn you about something. There’s information in the book that suggests you may be in danger. I have questions for you as well, about the book. Regardless, please call me. As I say, it’s urgent. If need be, I can meet you at the house.”

  Shepherd rang off and decided he had sounded a bit loony.

  * * *

  Lucas was in the woods when he felt his phone vibrate. He didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voicemail. A moment later, his phone vibrated again, but Lucas ignored it. He’d listen later when he was done hunting for the day.

  He was in a better mood. More focused. Sleeping with Murphy had fixed something within. He also saw Laura more clearly. There was something abnormal about her. Murphy had provided the final clue; Laura had a malicious, unnatural power. Something amplified by the house. He never believed in such things before, but they explained the bathroom attack and Nate’s accident perfectly.

  She had to go, but would a divorce be enough? That was the question. He had begun to imagine slipping his fingers around her neck and squeezing the life out of her as a preferable alternative to divorce.

  A few hours later, he walked into the lower door of the house, stamped the snow from his boots and peeled away the layers of his cold weather clothing. Pulled his phone from his pocket, clicked through to voicemail.

  Nuts. Crazy. Those were the words that came to mind after listening to Shepherd’s message.

  He needed to retrieve the book; what harm was there in listening for a few minutes? Lucas hit the callback button and, moments later, heard Shepherd’s clipped English accent. As Lucas expected, Shepherd wanted to meet today. Lucas quickly changed into clean jeans and a flannel shirt and drove away in the truck.

  * * *

  Shepherd looked up as Lucas knocked on the open office door. “Mr. MacKenzie, good afternoon. Please, sit down.”

  “Actually, it’s Dr. MacKenzie.”

  “Of course, Dr. MacKenzie.” Shepherd stood, walked around the desk, and closed the door as Lucas sat.

  “So, what’s the story with the book? Your message was…strange.”

  Shepherd sat at his desk. “Indeed. Sorry about that. Regardless, you’re here. Let’s jump right in.”

  He opened the book. “The first half of the book is the diary of a young noblewoman. Mundane day-to-day stuff. Then medicine becomes the main narrative. This woman fancies herself a healer. The title for such women then was cunning women. Their medicine was a combination of roots and herbs, spells and magic, invocations and amulets. An unusual profession for a noblewoman.”

  “Interesting, but how is that relevant to me? You said you needed to warn me about something?”

  “Indeed, I’m coming to that. This book has a dark ending. It seems the woman’s husband buried her alive as punishment for some transgression.”

  Lucas leaned forward with a curious expression. “Seriously? How do you know that?”

  “She wrote about it in the book. It’s the final chapter, so to speak.”

  Lucas shook his head. “That’s grim—and ironic.”

  “Indeed. So, consider this.” Shepherd closed and set the book aside. Fixed an intense gaze on Lucas. “You’re buried alive and wish to leave some message for posterity, or words of anger over your predicament. What language would you use?”

  “English, of course.”

  “Precisely. And yet this woman used Old English. Indeed, the entire book is written in a language that was essentially dead for several hundred years.” He eyed Lucas carefully. “This woman wrote some very angry words in Old English in this book—a book hidden within your house.”

  Lucas looked pensive for a moment. “Interesting as an intellectual exercise or historical oddity, but otherwise, I don’t see what difference it makes.”

  “You’re not curious about this?” Shepherd recognized something different, something off about Lucas. Couldn’t put a finger on it.

  “So what’s so urgent here? What are these angry words?”

  “I’m coming to that,” Shepherd said. “You see, there was one sect, a very small group of individuals, who continued to use Old English after its demise as the spoken language of the English peoples.”

  “Who’s that?”

  He set his pencil down. No matter how he framed it, the explanation would sound ridiculous, but he forged on. “Witches, Dr. MacKenzie.”

  “Witches? Are you serious?” Lucas looked incredulous, somewhere between surprise and abject laughter.

  “I’m quite serious. Does sorcerers sound better?”

  “Not really, Doctor.” Lucas shook his head with skeptical disdain. “To be honest, I don’t believe in any of that stuff. Really, I should be going.”

  “Please, hear me
out.” He stood and paced in the small office. “Your concepts about witchcraft and sorcery are informed by colonial and European ideas about witchcraft, which in turn, were driven by a truly awful book, the Malleus Maleficarum. That nonsense set off a witch hysteria that lasted two hundred years. Thousands of people—eccentric spinsters, mental defectives, various and sundry church enemies—were tried and burned at the stake.”

  “Interesting, but—”

  “No true sorcerer ever faced a trial or inquisition. They were much too powerful to be exposed and tried.”

  “You believe that?” Lucas stared with an expression of total disbelief.

  “Absolutely. I’ve studied sorcery for years. I know the subject intimately. The practice of sorcery is universal, woven into every known culture since antiquity.” Shepherd turned to the last written page.

  “Anyway, this here.” He pointed to the final paragraph and read the words in his flawless Mercian accent for impact. Shepherd turned to Lucas. “Essentially, this is an invocation.”

  “A what?”

  “An invocation. A hex, or incantation if you like…”

  Lucas appeared to be biting his tongue. Shepherd regarded him hawkishly. Shepherd took off his glasses and closed his eyes, looking for the right words. Staring at Lucas intently, he said, “Given the fact that this was written in a book in your house, I believe you and your family are in danger. This incantation—and don’t laugh—is terribly harsh.”

  “According to you, this was written five hundred years ago. How could it possibly affect us now? Sorry, but this sounds perfectly crazy.” Spoken with the clear implication, and so do you!

  “I imagine it does. But understand this. The invocation continues until revoked.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “What?”

  “The woman who wrote this is dead. She can no longer undo it. Therefore, the invocation is still in effect.”

  “If this happened five hundred years ago, then clearly it happened elsewhere.”

  “Immaterial. The invocation isn’t on your house,” Shepherd paused. “It’s on you and your family.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “The people in this book are almost certainly your ancestors.” Shepherd looked thoughtful for a moment. “This room where you found the book—was there anything else in there?”

  “We didn’t find a body, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I was.”

  “Doctor, thank you for your time. I need to get going.” Lucas stood to leave.

  “Yes, of course.” Shepherd frowned. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Nope. Not a bit.”

  “Dr. MacKenzie, I know someone who may be able to help you—”

  “I gotta go, Doc.” Lucas edged toward the door, eyeing Shepherd with caution as if he were mentally ill.

  “Please consider what I’ve said. I believe this situation is dangerous. If you change your mind, please call me.” He tucked a card into the book and handed it to Lucas, unhappy to see the book go. Lucas MacKenzie would probably sell it. He would’ve preferred to burn it and hide the evidence of his failure.

  “Sure, fine.” Lucas tucked the book under his arm. “Listen, Doctor, if I run into trouble, I’ll get a silver cross to protect myself.”

  “You’ve been watching too many late-night thrillers, Dr. MacKenzie.”

  “That may be—though that’s rather ironic coming from you after the whole witches bit. Have a good day, Doctor.” With that, Lucas beat a hasty retreat.

  Shepherd shook his head. One hundred silver crosses won’t protect you, my friend!

  The man was an idiot, though who could blame him? It was a ridiculous story.

  Unless you knew the truth.

  Forty-Nine

  Dana stared at Laura in disbelief, then horror. “Oh my God!”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Laura said, nearly hysterical. “What if she’s dead?”

  “Call nine-one-one. Now!”

  Laura dialed 911, telling an agitated but lucid story. There was a pause, Laura put on hold. The woman returned and said, “We’ve notified the county sheriff, ma’am. They’re sending a squad.”

  Laura jumped up and spoke in a frantic voice, “I need to go over there. I have to know what’s going on.”

  Dana stood, eyes wide, teeth locked together in an expression of fear. Laura scarcely noticed. “Mom, I’m coming too.”

  “No! I can’t wait.” Laura swung around toward the door, but Dana grabbed her arm and said, “Mom, slow down!”

  “What?”

  “You’re acting nuts. Slow down. Leah and I are coming too! Just wait!”

  Ten minutes later, with Dana and Leah trailing, Laura grabbed her parka, and they ran out the door. No longer warm, the Honda sputtered to life and roared as Laura slammed her foot to the floor, careening in a wide circle onto the fire lane.

  “Mom! Seriously! Chill out!”

  Laura took a deep breath and tried to slow down, but it was no good. The trees raced by on either side, meshed together like the rocky cliffs of a river gorge, but Laura only saw them within the subconscious pilot that controlled the car. Blurred high speed pictures played in her mind as Laura imagined what she would find at Sally’s. Every muscle in her body was tense with dread.

  The highway came. The lights of the town shone dimly in the distance, like stars of a faraway galaxy, and Laura thought: they might as well be, no crazier an idea than anything else she had seen or heard in the past few days. Suddenly aware of the fragile nature of her world—a world threatened by some unknown entity—she felt it shattering, like a delicate ornament, never to be made whole again.

  A squad car racing by, red lights flashing, shook Laura to the present. The squad joined several others clustered on the roadway ahead, the scene reminiscent of too many disasters to be lost on Laura. A nervous crowd had formed in front of Sally’s house. Laura pulled the car to the side of the road, turned the key, and just watched. She shivered in fear, pity, regret—a strange mix of emotions that left Laura ready to collapse in tears.

  “Mom, this looks bad.”

  Laura just nodded, afraid her voice would betray her.

  More people joined the crowd, and an ambulance arrived, bringing hope, but only for moments. There was no rush to the house, just talk, and the spreading ripples of rumors and whispers among the crowd. With this, all hope died. Sally knew the answer and Sally was dead.

  Within the anonymous heads and hats of the crowd, Laura picked out Brenda and Carol Anson talking quietly to each other, their vaporous breath rising into the red glare of flashing lights. Laura slipped out of the car and walked toward them, her hands tucked tightly into the pockets of her parka.

  A head turned. Someone said, “That’s Laura MacKenzie.”

  More heads turned. Laura felt naked and conspicuous. Carol turned and walked forward to meet her, her expression pained and fearful. Carol kept looking over her shoulder. She took Laura by the arm, pulled her in close. “Feelings are running a bit high here, Laura. Might be best to stay away for now.”

  “What about Sally?”

  Carol started crying. “She’s dead. Jesus, Laura. What’s happening here?”

  Even though she suspected the worst, the confirmation still stunned her. Voice weak, uneven, she said, “I don’t know. I just saw her today.”

  “You should go, seriously. I’ll call you later—when I know something.” Carol pushed her toward the Honda.

  There were dissonant murmurs in the crowd. Menacing steps were taken toward Laura, who moved slowly backwards. No uniforms, no signs of help were anywhere in sight. Carol grabbed Brenda’s arm and walked away from the crowd, toward the store.

  Someone yelled, “You did this! This is your fault! You killed Sally!”

  “No…” Laura’s voice was a whisper. There was nothing she could say to these people. Nothing at all. She felt tiny and alone.

  “Get out of here! Leave us alone!” Several voices at
once, the crowd becoming an unruly mob.

  As she stepped backwards, Laura felt for the edge of the car with her hand. Ran around the fender as the first snowball struck her on the back, winding her. Laura tore at the door as more snowballs splattered against the car. Then a rock bounced off the windshield.

  Dana yelled something she didn’t understand, and Leah was crying. Laura fumbled in her pockets for the keys, dropped them, found them, and started the car. Fear hobbled her every move.

  “Mom! What the hell is going on?”

  “Somehow, they think I killed Sally.”

  “What? That’s crazy!”

  Laura could see the fear in her daughter’s eyes. Fear of the animalistic instinct that had taken over the crowd, their fear turned to mindless anger by an inexplicable event. Her foot found the accelerator. Tires spun, then found purchase as Laura forced the wheel in a sharp turn and sped out of town, shaking from a powerful rush of adrenaline.

  As the town receded behind them, she cried, scarcely believing Sally was dead. Everything was collapsing, shredding into meaningless bits, the weight of it bearing down on her.

  Dana, placed a hand on her shoulder, offered support as they rushed out of town. Within Laura, the adrenaline and a tremendous rush of random emotions gradually forged a new and stronger feeling within.

  Anger.

  Anger at the crowd, anger at Lucas, anger at the universe. What had happened to Sally? Why had the crowd turned on her? The house came into view, the door, the kitchen, her actions mechanical.

  Dana, holding Leah, followed her into the kitchen.

  “What happened back there?”

  “I don’t know. Sally’s dead and they blame me, I guess.” Her anger suppressed every other emotion. She felt almost robotic.

  Dana slumped into a chair in shock. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “I doubt He’ll be much help,” Laura said, tossing her coat on the table and pouring a glass of wine.

  “Mom, this is getting out of hand,” Dana said, looking deeply troubled.

  Laura’s anger reached a white-hot flash point. She grabbed for the sugar bowl, intending to smash it. As her fingers touched the ceramic finish, the bowl flew off the table and shattered against the wall.