by Cailyn Lloyd
Laura felt a tremendous surge of relief. Dana and Leah were back! The keys to the truck were in her hand. Together, they would leave this place and never look back. Soon it would be over. She looked at Lucas, his broken skull. Dana shouldn’t see that.
“Dana! Don’t come in here!”
Too late.
Ashley and Dana, with Leah snuggled on her shoulder, walked into the Hall, windblown and flecked with snow. Dana stared at Laura, unable conceal her shock.
“Oh my God, Mom, you look terrible.”
Laura rushed to them, hugging Leah and Dana. “Thank God you guys made it!”
Laura turned and grabbed Ashley, happy to see her, glad to have her friend back. “When did you get here?”
“I thought—where’s Dad?” Dana’s brow knitted into a puzzled expression.
As Laura hugged Ashley, a powerful wave blasted through her.
get your hands off me you bitch!
Laura yanked her hands away and stepped back. “Ashley?”
Ashley seemed to fade slightly, her face and body morphing into someone—or something—else, just for an instant like a micro-expression. Laura stood, stunned and baffled, grave fear exploding within her. Who? What…?
“Mom? What’s the matter?”
In a daze, Laura stared at Ashley. “Who are you?”
Dana looked at Laura in shock and surprise. “Mom! It’s me. Dana—”
“Not you. Her!” Laura pointed at Ashley. Felt queasy, saw Ashley standing there for a moment: her face a grimace of contempt, then briefly morphed into the woman in the basement hallway. Just a flash, nearly subliminal.
Insane.
Laura felt insane. Losing her mind. Asylum-bound. The feeling washed over her in a sickening rush.
Dana glanced at Ashley, then at Laura, a nervous and fearful glance as if she too questioned Laura’s sanity.
“It’s Ashley,” Dana said. Her eyes darted sideways, then she backed away, holding Leah, staring at Ashley in abject fear. She had seen something frightening too.
Laura shook her head slowly. It wasn’t Ashley.
“Where’s Dad?” Dana said, voice rising in pitch. “I thought—”
Her eyes focused to the right where Lucas lay bloodied and still. Dana clapped a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a scream.
In almost a whisper, Laura said, “Who are you?”
Laura felt another wave pass through her, blending and mutating the image that was Ashley. The woman hadn’t spoken. A tight grin crossed her face and she laughed unexpectedly. “Don’t you know by now?”
Staring at this iniquitous creature, a corrosive fear, shrouded like an evil messenger, paralyzed Laura and rendered her mute. An answer too awful and inconceivable to consider surfaced.
Anna Flecher.
Sixty-Nine
Dana screamed, wide-eyed in terror. Slowly stepped back, bumped against the sofa, and tumbled onto it. Her eyes rolled up, and her head lolled back as she collapsed, unconscious. Leah fell from her arms and rolled toward the floor, howling with fear. Laura took a step toward her.
“Leave her!”
Laura froze, stunned by the power of that voice. It seemed Leah was too. She jerked, found her thumb, and settled into muted whimpers. The woman stepped forward and swung her arm, backhanded, striking Laura across the face, knocking her to the floor.
“You stupid fucking bitch! I wanted to kill Lucas!”
Nearly hysterical, Laura lay there, her mind teetering at the edge of madness. Was this a dream? An awful nightmare? Her mind was locked in mortal conflict between real and unreal, sane and insane. As much as she’d felt a presence in the house, a part of her had refused to believe it. Besides, Anna Flecher was dead!
Yet in her soul, Laura knew this could only be Anna Flecher. Why did she look like Ashley? Was it Ashley? Ashley somehow warped and crazed by grief? She had been so angry when she left.
“Confused, are we?” The woman spoke with an English accent now.
Laura stared, mute.
“Oh well, no matter. I’m going to kill you so slowly, so terribly, you’ll wish Lucas had done it for me.”
“Who are you?”
“I think you know, but by all means, let’s talk.” She spoke with Ashley’s voice. The woman crossed her arms, resting her chin on one hand in a mocking parody of a concerned friend. “We have time. I’m waiting for someone to arrive.”
Laura sat up and shivered, arms wrapped tight across her chest. Her earlier will to fight had evaporated, leaving her weak and defenseless. If she had any rational thought in her head, it was sheer wonder her heart didn’t simply evaporate into the nothingness of a moonless night and blow away.
In the English accent, she said, “I’m Anna Flecher. My husband buried me alive in that room.”
Anna pointed to the hole in the wall. “Left me for dead. I think you figured that much out. With magic, I escaped, but only after suffering an awful, lingering death. I’ve been settling the score with that monster ever since.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
Pointing to Lucas, she said, “That useless bastard is the thirteenth great-grandson of my husband and the slut he married after he murdered me. Look it up. I filled in the family tree for you since you were getting nowhere. Anyway, I had this lovely little plan to kill you one-by-one, and you’ve gone and fucked it up!”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You killed Lucas, you murderous twat.”
“It was self-defense—”
“Talk, stall, see if I care. You’re still going to die.”
Anna swiveled suddenly and kicked Laura, knocking her sideways. “I think things will work out anyway.”
Laura hardly noticed. She was in a trance, a focused state fomented by a growing realization. A sudden awareness. Fury possessed her, urging her to strike and kill. She sat up and her eyes narrowed to slits. “You killed Sally.”
“Yep.”
“Turned Lucas against me?”
“Yep. Wasn’t hard.”
“Murdered Ashley?”
“Yes yes yes! Enough!” Anna’s expression was savage, cruel. The image of Ashley shimmered for a moment, concealing Anna. “As I said, things will work out anyway. After I kill you, Dana, and Leah, the house will be mine, as it should’ve been centuries ago. As Ashley, I’ll take your money and the authorities will see nothing but a ghastly family murder and a suicide—yours. Nate left me everything.”
“What about Nate?”
“Nate’s a zucchini, sweetie.” In a parody of hillbilly, she said, “He ain’t never waking up.”
At that moment, something within snapped, fueled by a growing rage. Laura leapt up and, launching off her left foot, kicked out with her right foot, driving her heel squarely into Anna’s solar plexus. Laura felt a grim satisfaction as Anna’s eyes opened wide in surprise and pain. Her body toppled backwards into the wall where she fell into a dazed heap.
Her eyes then snapped open, her expression cunning and devious. She smiled sweetly and spoke in Southern belle, “Is that the best you can do?”
As Laura stalked the woman, the sofa to the left of the fireplace rumbled and quivered violently. Anna twitched her index finger. The sofa levitated and flew at Laura. She dropped to the floor as it sailed just overhead, crashing into the wall and collapsing like a lifeless corpse.
Any action was useless. Laura knew it, but she grabbed a piece of the broken ashtray and flung it sidearm at the woman. The heavy glass sailed true, but Anna deflected the projectile with her hand.
Anna raised her arms. The room shook with her fury, a seismic wave of hatred. The walls trembled, pictures and wall hangings crashed and clattered to the floor. Plaster dust fell like rain.
Leah howled in terror. Dana’s body rocked and rolled off the sofa, narrowly missing Leah.
Sensing movement above, Laura glanced up and jumped clear a moment before a large chuck of plaster crashed to the floor right where she’d been standing.
Anna snatched it out of the air.
An arrogant smile on her face, she taunted, “I’ve been teasing you. Now I’m going to bury you!”
Anna flung the metal shovel like a spear, straight for Laura’s throat. She shoved her hands out in a futile defense.
The shovel slammed into an invisible barrier just inches from her palms, bounced away and clattered to the floor.
How—?
No time to ponder.
Laura grabbed a ceramic lamp and threw it across the room with preternatural force. Her strength seemed to be growing, but the lamp flew wide. She plucked pillar candlesticks from the mantle and pitched them one by one across the room. Anna deflected them effortlessly with her hands, the heavy glass smashing and exploding against the wall and the floor.
Her anger flamed white hot at this awful creature and the damage she had inflicted upon them. Laura hurled a thick glass hurricane shade fast and true, striking Anna on the forehead with a dull wet thwack, opening a gash on her temple. Anna wobbled and fell against the wall, momentarily dazed.
Sensing an advantage, Laura charged, but Anna thrust her hands out and Laura slammed into an invisible wall. She bounced backwards like a rag doll, falling to the floor in a graceless sprawl.
Laura lay stunned, her rage tempered by the powers arrayed against her. How could she overcome such force? She was fighting a dead woman. Still, as she pondered this, her hand reached for and closed around a brass table lamp, firing it at Anna with deadly aim and strength.
Anna reacted slowly, and the lamp struck her in the chest, knocking her to the floor.
Laura charged as Anna struggled to her feet. Grabbed a pewter sconce, swinging and smashing it against her head. Anna fell into the wall, but before Laura could strike again, she lunged and shoved Laura, sending her stumbling to a hard landing on the oak planks in front of the fireplace.
“Fucking little bitch!” Anna hissed.
They eyed each other with hatred, panting in ragged gasps, exhausted, still searching for weakness in each other. Blood ran in a rivulet from Anna’s temple. The sofa to the right of the fireplace shook and rose a foot, then dropped to the floor.
Anna was weakening!
With that knowledge, Laura grew stronger. Murder filled her heart. She stalked the woman, became a deadly predator fueled by hate and adrenaline, her primal fight-or-flight response at full throttle.
Laura rushed forward and side-kicked Anna in the gut, swiveled and slammed her in the head, knocking her to the floor. In a mindless frenzy, she kicked her prone enemy again and again. Anna curled up to fend off the blows, then leapt up when Laura paused, throwing an arcing roundhouse, punching Laura in the face just below the eye.
Laura staggered backwards, stumbled over an end table, legs tangled, and fell awkwardly, her weight falling on her twisted left arm.
It broke with a dry snap. Pain shot up the arm and into her shoulder, a lightning blitz of agony that brought tears to her eyes and a rush of stomach acid to her throat.
Anna had fallen to one knee, near exhaustion and collapse. She looked at Laura with venomous loathing. “I hated you from the moment I set eyes on you.”
Ashley’s voice, her face. Momentarily confused, Laura whispered, “Ashley?”
“I’m not Ashley, you sow,” Anna spat in disgust. From the far side of the room she charged at Laura, her face contorted in rage. Laura rolled backwards, ignoring the grinding pain in her left arm, her hand grabbing the handle of the brass log poker, ready to swing it sharply, hoping for something, anything: a stunning blow, a reprieve, deliverance from this nightmare.
The overhead lights flickered. The air at the center of the room appeared to shimmer, followed by a diffuse vapor that condensed into a cloud. It was disturbing enough to stop Anna in her tracks. Laura dropped the poker in abject shock, unable to even imagine the portent of this phenomenon.
A big man materialized out of the fog.
What in the hell…?
But Laura knew.
It was Tom. Sally’s Tom, who had disappeared so many years ago.
He stood six feet tall with curly black hair, a greasy Purina cap, and a pitchfork in hand. He swung the fork and skewered Anna Flecher through the abdomen as she backpedaled away. Lifted her and slammed her body, still impaled by the pitchfork, tines first, into the hardwood planking. She coughed a few bloody bubbles and died, eyes locked forever open in surprise.
He brushed his hands clean of some invisible stain and spoke to the room. “Now we’re even.”
Tom tipped his hat at Laura and evaporated into the night.
His appearance capped the insanity of the night. A nightmare or delusion or hallucination of the worst order. It couldn’t be real.
A stress-induced fugue state perhaps? A complete psychotic break? Anything was possible.
Laura stared at the dead body of Anna Flecher for a time in a daze. It looked like Ashley but now she would never know the truth. Had Anna assumed Ashley’s shape? Stolen her body? Regardless, Laura felt certain the creature who looked like Ashley was dead.
The Hall silent, the storm outside held at bay, it felt over.
Done.
As her heartbeat slowed, she crawled to the sofa. Dana was still unconscious, and Leah lay next to her, whimpering. Somehow, they had remained safe during the chaotic fight with Anna. Laura carefully scooped Leah up with her good arm and smothered her in kisses.
At that moment, the large center window behind her imploded with a deafening blast, showering the room with glass.
Seventy
Shepherd drove through Lost Arrow in a blizzard of biblical intensity. Snow blew in angry lines across the headlights, the road all but invisible. Lightning flashed in sporadic bursts, a godsend really, giving vague illumination to the tree line on either side, providing points of reference for the road ahead. He still missed the turn and nearly slid into the ditch. Backed up and drove down the fire lane. Nearly blind, he crawled forward. He might as well have been walking.
A dark feeling, a mix of anxiety and dread, grew within. A steady stream of negative energy flowed through him from the house, pressing at his temples like a painful vice. No longer cloaked, Anna Flecher seemed very much in evidence and eminently powerful. More dangerous than anything he’d confronted in a century or more.
With these anxieties came a primitive emotion long absent.
Fear.
Not an abstract anxious sensation but a visceral, heart-pounding, gut-wrenching cacophony of adrenaline coursing through his arteries in the primal response to danger. In this case, a deep existential fear he might not survive this battle. He could turn back, but he wouldn’t. His ethical code was deeply ingrained. As an author of this mess, honor demanded he fix it.
He saw flickers of light ahead. As he crept forward, the lights resolved into the large faceted windows of the house. Shepherd turned the headlights off a hundred feet from the driveway and navigated by fog lamps, hoping to avoid drawing attention to his arrival. He eased down the drive, his galloping anxiety in overdrive.
The house lights were ablaze, two vehicles parked in the drive. Lucas’s truck to the left, the Honda abandoned in the middle of the drive, one door hanging open. He had to assume Laura and Lucas were home. The night was fast careening off the rails with something evil at large in the house and the MacKenzies trapped in the middle.
Shepherd pulled in next to the truck, keeping the Range Rover mostly hidden from the house. Parked and no longer fighting the storm, the negative energy emanating in pulses from the house felt more intense. Images assailed him. Visions of death, murder, and mayhem. Past? Future? Present? He didn’t know. They flew by too quickly to see. It was overwhelming. He almost resorted to holding his head to stop the insane rush of information.
He decided to walk a circuit around the house while he finalized a plan. Touched his talisman, then dropped
several amulets and the Celtic cross into various pockets. Pulled ski goggles over his eyes and snugged the hood tight around his face. He walked around the truck toward the back of the house, through deep snow, thankful he’d worn waterproof boots. It was dark here, no light visible in the lower level, but as he turned the back corner of the house, brilliant light spilled from the upper floors illuminating the chaos of the storm. More confirmation the MacKenzies were home. It didn’t matter now; he was here. Time to end this.
He couldn’t confront the problem outdoors. He had to get inside, but how? Ring the doorbell? That seemed rather underwhelming. Regardless, he had to worry about Anna, and Lucas had guns, so he risked being shot as an intruder. He decided to burst in the front door and hopefully catch them all off-guard.
An image flashed through his mind and lingered, the body of Lucas MacKenzie, his head battered and covered with blood. He was dead.
Bloody hell!
Lucas wouldn’t be interfering, he thought grimly.
He was too late. Maybe Laura was dead too. He then felt a particularly strong wave emanate from within. It was confusing. Anna Flecher, but not Anna Flecher. Someone, something within gathering strength, expecting him. Knowing he had arrived. Lying in wait.
He sensed a child in the house. He didn’t like that either and now Lucas’s death weighed on him. He’d played this too cautiously, waited too long, waffled when the situation demanded a daring, concise response. Signs he was getting old. Growing soft. Worst of all, losing his edge. He hadn’t walked in this world in a long time and suddenly felt ill-suited to meet it.
Just then, the large center window of the Hall overhead imploded with a thunderous roar.
* * *
Kneeling, Kevin Drew traced a sign of the cross on his chest, stood and ran to his office.
It was time to act. God wanted him to intercede at the MacKenzie house.
He grabbed and zipped his parka, pulled a woolen cap tight over his head, then slipped into thick mittens. Checked his pocket for the key fob. Touched the cross on his neck and stepped out into the night.
The storm assaulted every millimeter of exposed skin. He shivered nervously even though he felt protected by an invisible shield emanating from above. Nervous because he was stepping into the unfamiliar and frightening territory of the supernatural and felt out of his element.
