by Dani Lamia
Hester returned to her place at the edge of the pentagram and watched her companions relax their arms and close their eyes. All was ready.
“Goddess Hecate, hear us,” the High Priestess began.
Glendarah and Dzolali repeated it.
“We pray for your favor and blessings,” Hester continued with her sisters chanting her words just after, their task for the entire ritual. “We beseech you for the power of your daughter, Circe.” The coven repeated the mantra.
“Grant us your favor, Circe!” Hester called and raised both hands, palms forward, in the direction of Glendarah, who went silent, her head tilting up to the ceiling.
Dzolali seconded the chant, and the hand gesture toward Glendarah.
“I call upon the High Priest Panas, spirit of this house!” Hester went on. “Grant us the power to be heard by Circe! Transform our sister into the creature she desires!” Hester and Dzolali said in unison. The demand was said twice more.
The wind rose suddenly and powerfully, threatening to tip the smallest candles or at least blow them out, but they remained upright, burning. The electric lights of not only the master bedroom, but that of the entire House of the Seven Gables went out, and the sky above the property flickered, then glowed with lightning. A bolt of electricity struck the house upon the iron spire on the southwest corner turret, and another set the opposite one aglow. Both strikes sent vibrations throughout the structure and would have awakened the lone, unbewitched figure in the home, had not Dzolali’s spell of silence been cast.
The form of Glendarah turned dark, as if she had been subjected to a blast furnace’s heat. Her blonde hair disintegrated to nothingness, as did her lavish dress. From her back, two small limbs appeared. Her arms and hands elongated and thickened, as did her legs. The relatively short, attractive human female’s body bulged with suddenly added girth, and the new limbs stretched and grew.
The distorted form of Glendarah collapsed to the pentagram on all fours. A shrill cry of pain and fury erupted from her inhuman mouth, and from the new limbs spread a sheet of black flesh.
Dzolali took a step back, in tears as she watched her sister transform. She knew from experience that the wishes of the goddess Circe resulted in great pain once granted.
Hester knew this, too, but smiled at the sacrifice. It would be well worth it.
Glendarah rose to her new height, easily beyond seven feet. She stretched the wings to their full reach, even wider than she was tall. Miraculously, in the movement, not a candle was tipped.
Hester bent at the gargoyle’s feet, retrieved the photograph from Hecate’s altar, and showed it to Glendarah. “Do you know him? Do you remember?” she asked, for sometimes the freshly transmogrified lose their human memory.
Glendarah nodded. Her naked form flexed as muscles relearned their duties and limitations.
“And you know what to do? Where you can find him?” Hester followed.
Glendarah answered with a short, ear-piercing shriek and flexed her new upper body.
“Then go, Glendarah, darling,” Hester bid and pointed to the open balcony doors. “Do what need be done and return.”
Glendarah moved to the open balcony doors, awkwardly at first, as the strange muscular legs bent to her will. She flapped her wings, making the edges of the fresh black flesh snap like whips. Retracting herself into a crouch, and combining it with another flap, she launched into the air.
Hester rushed onto the balcony, grasping the rail as she tried to follow Glendarah’s flight. The magnificent gargoyle’s wings pumped furiously with a fleshy report, keeping the body aloft. Barely visible, Glendarah the gargoyle rose above the tree line, a jet-black figure against the night sky.
Hester noticed Dzolali at her side and placed her arm around her. “Look at our sister go.”
“Beautiful,” Dzolali whispered.
“With Carp’s son-in-law out of our way,” Hester said, “the house will be saved.”
“I’ve been considering that, High Priestess.”
Hester turned to Dzolali, eyeing her steadily in the starlight. “What troubles you?”
“Won’t someone replace Hillsborough as village president, and may they not pursue his plan?” Dzolali asked.
Hester turned to look at the night’s sky. “Then we will deal with that in like fashion. And if another, the same fate. We must not allow anyone to harm our house.”
***
Kenneth Hillsborough had been asleep just moments ago, but a sound had awakened him. At first, he thought it was a branch scraping on the porch screen door. It was subtle, but repetitive. As it continued, he grew restless and looked at the clock. It was three thirty in the morning.
“Shit,” he muttered. It was too late, there was no getting back to sleep, even after removing the pesky branch. He might as well get up and watch television. There was not much else to do in his girlfriend’s apartment, where he was now living since his wife kicked him out of his house.
Kenneth got out of bed and dressed from the pile of clothes he had shed on the floor. He left the lights off and wandered through the ground-floor apartment, heading toward the kitchen. He paused at the glass patio doors and looked outside. In the dim light provided by the streetlamp, he could see the tree had no branches near the glass.
Kenneth checked the lock out of habit. It was secure. He checked the front door, thinking that perhaps someone was trying to pick the lock, for there was no window. That door, too, was secure. He turned from it, determined to check the back door, but when he was halfway up the hall, the sound resumed. It had definitely come from behind him.
Puzzled, he returned to the patio doors and stood still, listening and looking out onto the patio and the street beyond.
A rustling came from the bushes just beyond the end of the patio bricks. He saw the bush at the end move.
“Damn it,” Kenneth mumbled. “Raccoon in the garbage again.”
He flipped the patio light on, unlocked and slid the glass door to the side, and closed it behind him. Stepping onto the sharp edges of the bricks in bare feet made him cringe, but he knew the creature would run as soon as they saw him, if it or they had not fled already.
He was near the end of the row of bushes when he spoke, “All right, shoo, you motherfuckers!” he called.
There was nothing there. The garbage cans were apparently untouched, their lids were still shut tight.
“What the . . . shit?”
A long, low growl came to his ears and froze him in place. Whatever the creature was, it was something taller than himself. The growl grew to a sudden ear-ringing snarl, and Kenneth felt the hot breath on his neck.
“Oh, pl . . . please, God . . . nooo,” he whispered.
Another snarl spurred his wobbly legs moving, but he only made it two steps before a great clawed limb seized him by the shoulder and spun him to the ground. Kenneth began screaming. Flat on his back, he saw the great black creature looming above him. His mind couldn’t comprehend the sight of the monster’s muscular frame and great span of wings.
Kenneth’s bowels and bladder released as teeth and claws ripped into his prone body. His screams reached higher volume and pitch, waking not only his girlfriend inside the apartment but several neighbors. Lights soon began to appear in many windows of the homes and apartments on both sides of the street.
The gargoyle dug its claws into him and lifted his limp body from the bloody lawn. Its wings pumped up and down, lifting itself and its prey off the ground, flying straight up. Then, with a bite to Kenneth’s throat, the gargoyle shook its head back and forth until the body separated from the head, which toppled to the patio brick with a hollow crack.
The rest of Kenneth followed shortly, landing in the grass a few feet away.
***
Hester and Dzolali lounged in the master bedroom, though they were not relaxed. Hester waited from
her bed while she tried to read a book, though many minutes passed before a page was turned. Dzolali would sit for a time, then rise to pace, casting glances through the rain-streaked glass.
Another storm had come to White Lake, and they had closed the balcony doors. The wind and rain pelted the glass, and lightning flashed through the room.
The time on the mantle clock oozed by, agonizingly slowly, until, at nearly four thirty, the gargoyle landed on the balcony with a floor-quivering thud. Dzolali was the first to reach the doors. She pulled them open and backed away, letting them swing wide for their sister. When Glendarah was inside, Dzolali quickly shut the doors to the weather.
Hester came near but stayed to one side as Glendarah brought in her wings and went to the middle of the pentagram rug.
“Glendarah, are you all right?”
The gargoyle shrugged and nodded. Mute, Glendarah’s black eyes conveyed exhaustion.
“Quickly, Dzolali, we must release the spell.”
The ritual was reversed and Glendarah’s human form was restored, dress and all, though it reformed soaked. Dzolali, in her haste to help, forgot to recast the spell of silence. Hester did not notice.
Glendarah crumpled to the floor. She panted for breath but otherwise did not move.
“Glendarah!” Dzolali cried and kneeled next to her.
Hester said nothing but kneeled on the other side of Glendarah, searching the fallen witch’s face.
“I’m all right,” Glendarah answered weakly.
Hester gave an approving nod. “Is it done?”
“It is,” Glendarah replied and sat up.
“Bright girl,” Hester praised and helped Glendarah to her feet.
“Let’s get you to your room and out of those clothes.”
A flash of lightning cascaded through the room, and the power to the house went out, leaving them in candlelight.
Glendarah nodded and let her sisters take an arm each. Together, they left the master bedroom and took the slow but short walk to the southeastern turret, Glendarah’s bedroom.
***
Holgrave heard the lightning strike from the basement, and it knocked the lights out. He cut his nocturnal activities short and made his way to the stairs with the help of his flashlight. He walked up to the first floor as stealthily as he could, but the creaking steps threatened to give him away. It was the same problem throughout the house. The very structure of the ancient abode broadcast the presence of its occupants.
He reached the first floor and stepped into the hall. The raven squawked from its cage in Hester’s closed parlor. Without hesitating, Holgrave went to the staircase and began his ascent, cringing at every pop and creak of the wood beneath his feet.
Holgrave, having dirtied his jeans and t-shirt during his excursion, sifted through the possible excuses he would give if he were caught. As he reached the second floor’s landing, the lights came back on.
Just as he set foot on the third floor, the master bedroom door opened. Being in plain view, Holgrave backed down a few steps and crouched. The sound of conversation covered the creaks.
Peering through the railing, he watched as Hester and Dzolali helped Glendarah walk, each with one of her arms around their necks. She looked as if she had been saved from drowning in a pool. Her hair was dark and plastered against her skull, and her dress badly wrinkled and drooping.
What in the world have they been up to?
The three women were taking Glendarah to her bedroom, heading in his direction. Quickly but lightly, Holgrave retreated in a backward crawl until he was lying prone along the steps beneath the third-floor landing. He watched the women go past above him, seeing only their heads and shoulders from his vantage point. He heard them enter the room and close the door behind them.
Immediately, he got to his feet and ascended to the third floor. Pausing for a second to listen. He could hear the women speaking but could make out none of the words. He then made his move.
He felt ridiculous, a grown man tiptoeing through a hall in the wee hours of the morning, but there was much at stake. It was not at all like the times he had done the same at his family home in Hull, England, after a night out with his mates. He was sure to get more than a grounding if he were caught.
Holgrave stopped just outside Hester’s large, chamber-like bedroom. The door had been left open, and light, both of lamp and candle, spilled out into the hall. The little statue of Hecate, the pentagram rug, and the mass of burning candles were enough clues to lead him to the obvious. The witches had been up late, working on their dark magic.
Holgrave stealthily made his way up the hall in the direction of his room, trying but failing to keep the floorboards silent. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to be discovered at any moment. His face was etched with a perpetual cringe, as almost every step he took announced his position.
Finally, he went around the last corner and stood a moment with his back and head pressed against the wall, catching his breath and letting his heart slow down.
Holgrave checked his watch. It was twenty to five in the morning. Damn, he thought, knowing that he would be a zombie long into the morning. Fortunately, the occupants of the house were routinely slow to meet the day.
He moved to the door leading to his attic room, went inside, and escaped up the steps. Moments later, having undressed, he was in bed. He wondered for a time what had gone on that night in the master bedroom, but as exhausted as he was, he didn’t wonder long. He fell asleep.
***
Phoebe awakened shivering and found herself covered in half-dried sweat and nothing else.
“What the . . . fuck?” She felt about the mattress but could locate nothing, not even the pillows. She recalled many details of the dream but had the sense that it had ended some time ago.
Groggily, she rolled off the soft and giving mattress, turned on the lamp, and located her three discarded garments. They were on the floor, next to the bed. Quickly, she dressed. Looking around, she found the top sheet and comforter at the foot of the bed. The two skinny pillows were found on the floor on the other side of the bed by the open windows, which she closed. The rain had soaked the bench cushions.
Her body was ice cold, even when she returned to bed, complete with blankets. She shivered in a fetal position as the memory of the dream replayed. She had never had a dream so intense that she’d undressed, but then again, she had never experienced one so vivid or long lasting.
Phoebe was aware of a deep thirst but had no energy to do anything about it. Her body ached. She smelled the sheets, then the pillows, then her armpit. She reeked with sweat and groaned in disgust. She pressed her nose into the thick comforter and inhaled again, noting some other odor behind her own.
It wasn’t a masculine scent, so she ruled out aftershave or men’s cologne. It was earthy, with notes of water lilies, one of her favorite flowers. Along with that was a hint of vanilla. Had that scent been in the sheets before? What detergent uses water lily?
Phoebe’s exhaustion overrode any concern over the undressing incident. She had no idea what time it was, but she knew the coming day was going to be rough. Eventually, she fell asleep.
6
A Dark Day for White Lake
“Phoebe!” a female voice called sharply.
Phoebe stirred awake, feeling that she had only been asleep for a few minutes. The memory of the previous night touched on her mind, and she popped her eyes open and checked about herself. The blankets were still on, and she found her clothes in the right places.
The sun poured into the room through the windows, bringing some of its warmth with it. Phoebe saw this through heavy eyelids.
“Phoebe,” Aunt Hester called again, perturbed. “I don’t know what you got away with in your previous life as a journalist, but here, we rise before ten in the morning.”
“Uh-huh.”
/> “If you are going to live up to your agreement, you need to do some chores around here,” Hester added.
“Oh,” Phoebe mumbled. “What time is it?”
“It’s after ten.”
Phoebe whispered profanely. She had hoped she wouldn’t be bothered until much later, perhaps close to dinner time.
“I need your help cleaning some rooms today,” Hester persisted.
“Okay.” She pressed her head into the pillows, taking in that sweet scent that she was sure hadn’t been there before her mad dream. Unconsciously, she smiled. Then the memory of the rest of the sexy dream recurred at the same time as her own foul scent, trapped as it had been under the bedsheets.
“Now, Phoebe.”
“Yes, Aunt Hester,” she slurred and sat up. Seeing her relation standing in the doorway, concealed from the sunlight by the door, Phoebe gave her a sarcastic salute. “I’m up.”
Hester shook her head, making sure her display of disappointment was witnessed. “It’s no wonder you were laid off with this work ethic,” she judged. “Come down to the kitchen as soon as you clean yourself up. I’ll describe in detail just what needs to be done.”
“Yes, Aunt Hester,” Phoebe droned.
The door closed before she had her aunt’s name off her tongue. Eyes tearing with exhaustion, Phoebe searched through her garbage bags for a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants. What she had put on to go to sleep had been fresh when she’d put them on, but they had been ruined.
She shuffled to the bathroom with her change of clothing and took a shower. The tiredness insisted on staying in her head and, if Phoebe didn’t know better, she would have thought she was hungover. She’d had only the two glasses of wine at dinner, so that ruled out the hangover.
Throughout her task of washing up, the memories of the seemingly days-long dream starring Dzolali remained in her head. Phoebe visualized the voluptuous redhead and felt her heartbeat quicken. Phoebe began to form many questions about herself as she dressed and went downstairs.
