by Tom Deady
Despite Hannah’s silent prayers, the car pulled up in front of Mama Bayole’s and the engine ceased. A single car door slammed, followed by footsteps on the porch, and eventually the screech of the screen door opening and closing. Hannah didn’t dare look up until it banged shut.
She scrambled to her hands and knees and continued toward the house. She kept her head up, watching for movement in the windows. Even if someone looked out, they would be unlikely to see anything, but Hannah couldn’t pull her gaze away.
Finally, she reached the side of the house. She spun into a sitting position with her back to the stone foundation and watched Susan cover the last few feet. It dawned on Hannah that short of breaking the glass, they had no way to get in the window.
Out of sheer frustration, she grabbed the molding and pushed. When the window swung in with a rusty squeal, she froze. Her eyes bugged in shock and surprise. She held the window up, as still as a human mannequin, afraid to move and make more noise. She listened for sounds in the house or the front door opening, but all was quiet. Her arm began to tire, then Susan was there with a stick to prop the window open. Hannah took the rope from her backpack, handed one end to Susan, and then slid feet-first into the abyss.
She landed hard, the drop longer than she’d expected, and rolled to the floor. The moist dirt beneath her hands made her cringe and she quickly scrambled to her feet. Wispy filaments clung to her and she imagined giant hanging spiders as she swatted madly to be free. She stood, making sure there weren’t any footsteps approaching upstairs. Satisfied she’d made it inside undetected, she pulled out the flashlight and snapped it on. Dust motes clouded the beam, which barely made a dent in the blackness.
The cellar was a hoarder’s paradise, far worse than the jumbled clutter of the barn. Stacks of rotting newspapers and magazines stood taller than Hannah. Cardboard boxes with their contents spilling out like the guts of rotting carcasses littered the floor. Old toys and broken pieces of furniture completed the obstacle course.
Hannah picked her way through the debris, not daring to even brush any of the objects for fear she would send them crashing down around her, and alert Mama Bayole and whoever was with her that she was down here. At first, based on the wide array of clothes and different age-level toys and games, Hannah thought the junk might be from former owners. Then another possibility hit her, one that left her breathless.
What if these were the leftovers—trophies—from all the previous sacrifices?
Hannah shook the thought off. Mama Bayole was old—this was probably family stuff. Then she moved the flashlight again and froze. Her chest tightened, like a boa constrictor was squeezing the breath out of her, not letting her take in any air.
Her bike stood upright on its kickstand like it belonged there. Hannah’s stomach inched up her throat. She closed her eyes and drew in a slow breath, willing herself not to puke in this unspeakable place. When the nausea subsided, she opened her eyes.
Ashley is here.
It took a moment to gather her composure before she moved on. She passed a final teetering stack of moldy newspapers and saw the stairs leading up to the main house. She made her way around them to the opposite side of the cellar. Instead of more piles of trash, Hannah stood in front of a crudely constructed wall. The two-by-fours and rough plywood looked much newer than anything she had seen in the house. She followed the wall until she came to a homemade door held shut by an oversized slide bolt.
Hannah knew what was on the other side of the door—who was on the other side. She glanced up the stairs, barely able to tamper down the irrational urge to run up and throttle the old woman. Instead, she reached out and grasped the handle of the slide bolt. As gently as possible, she pulled it. Hannah expected a metallic screech to rip through the room, but the bolt slid easily and quietly as if it had just been oiled.
She flashed the light to the far side of the door, noting the heavy hinges mounted there. That meant the door would swing out. Holding her breath, she pulled the handle, praying that the hinges were as well-oiled as the slide bolt. The door swung open effortlessly. She took another long, angry look at the stairs, then turned toward the room.
The inside of the door was covered with thick, foamy squares. It took her a moment to realize they were soundproofing tiles. A kid she went to school with had lined his garage with them so he could practice playing the drums without driving his parents crazy.
Hannah hesitated. Her legs refused to obey the command her brain was sending. Going into that room would put her in the victim’s shoes—make her feel like the ones that had come before Ashley. Alone, scared, and isolated. Doomed. It would be so easy for someone to run down the stairs, slam the door, and slide the bolt home.
Summoning every ounce of courage she had, Hannah forced a step forward, then another. The flashlight shook in her hand, creating a dizzying strobe-like effect. The walls and ceiling were also soundproofed, making the space seem like a rubber room in a crazy-house movie.
She inched her way farther inside, the beam finally reaching the far end of the room, where a rusty steel bedframe stood. Hannah moved the beam up, now desperate to see Ashley, to know that she was safe.
The bed was empty.
There were no tiles behind the bed, only the stone foundation, soundproof in its own way. Bolted into the stones were two sets of chains. They snaked down the wall and onto the rancid, stained mattress, ending in wide manacles.
Cold panic rose in Hannah. It was all real, not just some silly Nancy Drew mystery. She struggled to maintain her composure, but the terror was overwhelming. Her breath came in short gasps and the room began to shift. She moved to the nearest wall and leaned against it, trying to breathe deeper to feed her oxygen-starved brain. Tiny black spots began to dance in her peripheral vision. She closed her eyes and again willed her breathing to slow.
Ashley needs me, time is running out.
Never mind that if she passed out, she’d likely be caught.
These thoughts did nothing to calm her down. Focus on something else, anything. She began singing an earworm pop song in her head. She pushed away from the wall and took a closer look around the bed. There might be something, a clue to let her know Ashley had been here, but Hannah saw nothing. It was like Ashley had never existed.
Hannah retraced her steps back to the window. It was an endless journey through a sea of castoff objects that she didn’t want to look at. The stench of rotting paper was heavy in the air. How did I not notice it on the way in? She reached the window and gasped at the pale face staring through. It was Susan, wide-eyed and frantic. She was gesturing wildly for Hannah to hurry.
She moved toward the window, her hip bumping a cardboard box. What happened next reminded her of the game Mouse Trap. The stack of boxes leaned over against a pile of newspapers. The newspapers pushed against an old coatrack that held a bunch of out-of-style, moth-eaten overcoats. The coatrack crashed into an ancient television that was sitting on an old end table, smashing through the screen.
The clamor shattered the eerie quiet of the cellar. Hannah bolted toward the window and grabbed Susan’s outstretched hands, finding footholds in the rough stone wall until she was high enough to wiggle through the window.
“It’s all right, they’re gone. They went into the woods a few minutes ago. I heard the golf cart.”
Hannah stared at her uncomprehendingly. The commotion she’d made was harmless, other than the years it had probably taken off her life from sheer terror. Then the implication of Susan’s words hit her. It was time for the ceremony.
They would have to go to the clearing.
“We have to follow them.”
Hannah was starting to panic again. She didn’t know how much of a head start Mama Bayole had and no clue if they would even be able to find the clearing.
“I watched them go. I think there’s still time. That golf cart of hers doesn’t go much faster than a walk anyway,” Susan replied.
She started toward the back of the prop
erty, but Hannah hesitated. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the inside of Mama Bayole’s house. Was there a phone? She couldn’t remember seeing one, but it was worth a try.
“Wait, Susan. I’m going in the house. If she has a phone, I can call my dad. It will only take a minute.”
Susan nodded, then glanced warily at the old farmhouse. Her face was lined with a horrible expression of fear, making her look ancient. Hannah recognized the look. It said we don’t have a minute. Then her eyes softened, and she knew Susan was thinking the same thing she was—it might be the last time Hannah would talk to her father.
“You don’t have to go in. Wait here,” Hannah said.
She darted around to the front of the house. If anyone was still inside, they would have come running when she knocked over all the stuff in the cellar. Now was the time for speed, not stealth. She ran up the rickety front steps and yanked the screen, cringing at the cat-like screech of its hinges. She turned the knob and the door opened. It didn’t really matter. She’d been prepared to smash the glass if she had to.
She entered the house, her mind traveling back to the first day when Mama Bayole had tried to screw with her mind. Not tried, she corrected, succeeded. She heard the buzzing of the flies, felt the lethargic pull of sleep. She dismissed the thoughts as bad memories and flipped on the lights, then ran to the kitchen where she spotted the old wall phone.
She grabbed the receiver and stared at the rotary dial phone. Hannah had only seen them in the movies, except for her old toy phone with a rotary dial she’d had when she was a child. She began dialing Dad’s cell phone number. The return trip of the dial after each digit was excruciating. She waited, afraid the call wasn’t going to go through. After a few staticky clicks, it began to ring.
“Hello?”
Hannah sobbed at the sound of Dad’s voice and her knees buckled. She broke down completely, unable to utter an intelligible word.
“Hannah? Honey, is that you? Are you all right?” Dad sounded hysterical.
“It’s me. I’m okay, Dad,” she finally managed to say, her voice somehow thick and squeaky at the same time.
“Hannah, thank god. Where are you? I’ve been trying to call you.”
“No time. I’m at Mama Bayole’s. She took Ashley, Dad. She...”
Hannah heard Dad talking to someone. She assumed it was Officer Benson.
“Hannah, listen. Get out of there, go to the house, we’re on our way. We’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Hannah’s stomach dropped, like she’d just gone down that first big hill of a roller coaster. An hour was too long. An hour meant she would never see Ashley again.
“Dad, no. They’re going to kill her. Tonight. In the woods, the clearing... Dad...”
Hannah’s last word trailed off to an anguished whine. She had to try to save Ashley without him. “I’m going after them. Please, hurry.”
She hung up the phone without waiting for his response. The shrill ringing brought fresh tears, knowing Dad had hit call back on his cell. Hannah’s heart ached when she realized she hadn’t told him she loved him. She reached for the phone, then let her hand drop. She ran out the back door and called to Susan. The woman came from the side of the house and they jogged toward the back woods. When they reached the tree line, Susan moved into the lead. Hannah handed her the flashlight.
“I saw them go in here.” Susan pointed the light at an opening in the brush, barely discernible as a path. “Let’s go.”
Hannah was surprised at Susan’s fearlessness. She really had no skin in the game. She could turn around, go back to her life. She didn’t owe Ashley or Hannah anything. At the same time, Hannah knew that wasn’t true. Susan had plenty of skin in the game. All the regret, remorse and fear she’d endured since escaping. She was here for redemption, or maybe retribution.
“Susan, what are we going to do if we—when we get to the clearing?”
Susan was breathing hard, but she was keeping a steady pace.
“We’re going to save your friend and put an end to that voodoo witch or whatever she is.”
“How?”
The sound that came from in front of her might have been a laugh. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”
Hannah shook her head as she ran, unsure who was crazier—Susan for charging head-on into this or her for following.
A lunatic slideshow of scenarios played in Hannah’s head. In one, they found the clearing and heroically saved Ashley, defeating Mama Bayole. In all the others, they arrived to find Mama Bayole standing over Ashley’s pale, lifeless body. Or they were captured themselves and sacrificed to whatever pagan god or demon Mama Bayole worshipped.
For the next half hour, they clambered over rocks and shoved their way through branches. Hannah’s face and arms were covered in myriad scratches. Several times, Susan stopped to get her bearings, once having to backtrack when she realized they were off the path.
Hannah didn’t know what kept Susan on the right trail, some instinct from her experience years before, a latent memory etched in her subconscious, or something else. When the flashlight’s beam reflected a metallic glint, Hannah knew Susan had done it. Mama Bayole’s golf cart was just ahead.
Susan stopped and turned. Her expression was hard to read in the darkness, but her eyes held a look of dread and resignation. And something else. Courage? Conviction? It didn’t matter. They would enter the clearing and whatever happened after that was probably out of their hands. She prayed to whoever or whatever might be up there.
“We go in here. When we get near the clearing, I think we should split up. At the very least, we’ll be harder to catch that way. Before the...”
Hannah knew the next word was supposed to be sacrifice but Susan didn’t say it, either out of respect for Ashley or out of fear.
“There’s a prayer that Mama Bayole leads. Last time, we were all facing her with our backs to the altar. That might be the only chance we get. I’ll go to the far side of the clearing where I think Mama Bayole will be. You go the other way and wait behind the altar for the prayer. I’ll create a diversion. The altar has ropes, not chains, so you should be able to cut her loose pretty quickly.”
“What do you mean a diversion? They’ll catch you, Susan, I can’t.”
Susan grabbed her by the shoulders. Her grip was fierce. She leaned in close. “It’s the only way, Hannah. Trust me. I let them end one life while I stood by and did nothing. I can’t let it happen again.”
She let go of Hannah and turned toward the thicket, then she was gone, swallowed whole by the darkness.
Hannah paused for a second, then followed, feeling her way through the thick underbrush. There was nothing in front of her but darkness. The only sound was the rustling of the branches they made. She paused again, making sure she could still hear Susan up ahead. She imagined being lost in the pitch-black maze and shivered, forcing herself to keep moving.
When the tangled brush became too impenetrable to walk, Hannah got down on all fours and crawled, squeezing between branches and small tree trunks to keep going. The air was redolent with the combination of old pine needles and an earthy scent, and somehow comforting in spite of the circumstances.
She stopped when she saw Susan’s sneakers in front of her. The flickering firelight through the bushes provided the illumination. The clearing was just ahead. Susan signaled which way she was going and pointed for Hannah to go in the opposite direction. Hannah gave a thumbs-up and they parted, a golf ball-sized lump forming in Hannah’s throat. As with Jacob, Hannah felt like she’d known Susan for longer than just a few hours. They’d already been through so much.
Hannah resumed crawling around the perimeter of the clearing, careful to be quiet and to keep a safe buffer of undergrowth between her and the red-robed figures she could now make out in the firelight. It was slow going, the fear of being heard magnified now that she was that much closer. And now that she was alone.
Hannah’s gaze moved from one figure to the next. Then s
he spotted the stone altar. Cold talons gripped her when she saw the white sheet, knowing Ashley was under it. Burning acid bubbled up her throat, and she fought to choke it down. She began dry heaving, her stomach convulsing. She scurried deeper into the scrub pines, desperate to put some distance between her and the people in the clearing. She slid behind the trunk of the largest pine in the vicinity just as her body rejected the contents of her stomach.
She collapsed to the ground, choking back gasps and sobs, her throat on fire. She felt gutted, all the fight gone. Her mind flashed back to the reaction she’d had when she’d first realized what Scout had carried out of the trees.
It struck Hannah that closing her eyes and drifting off was a fine idea. Then she thought of that white sheet, of Ashley. She sat up, wiped her mouth on the bottom of her shirt, and began crawling again.
Scratched and dirty, minus a layer or two of skin on her palms and knees, Hannah reached her destination. She found a spot as close to the altar as she could get without being seen, the stone slab acting as a shield from the gathering on the other side. Just as she got situated, a murmuring rose from the group.
Hannah craned her neck to see what was causing the stir, but all she managed to get a look at was the shape under the sheet on the altar. Logic told her to look away, but she couldn’t. She watched for movement, something to let her know Ashley was alive, but the sheet remained still. A wave of desperate sorrow crashed over her. The urge to burst from hiding and yank the sheet away was overwhelming. She remembered what she’d said to Ashley.
“You might end up on that stone altar with Mama Bayole or the crazy librarian or someone worse standing over you with a knife.”
She had to know Ashley was still alive.
A voice rose from the clearing, strong and loud, and Hannah recognized it as Mama Bayole’s. It sounded like some kind of prayer or chant, but it wasn’t in English. The robed people had grouped together just on the other side of the altar. Hannah counted at least ten of them, probably more.
