666 Gable Way

by Dani Lamia

  “That woman in the middle,” Holgrave whispered, though all could hear him, “is from my dream.”

  “What’s wrong, Phoebe, dear?” the brunette said. “Don’t you just love my facelift?” With that, all three of the women laughed.

  There was something in the voice, the manner of speech, the way the woman grinned and placed her hands on her hips in a stance of arrogance, that made her familiar. But the eyes, clear blue, like unpolluted water at a beach somewhere, these clinched it.

  The woman was her great-aunt Hester. The woman at her right, the blonde, was certainly Glendarah, shed of close to four decades from the look of her tight skin and vibrant yellow hair.

  The three witches, dressed in their black Victorian-era gowns, tittered gleefully. To Phoebe, Dzolali appeared to be the most menacing. Her glare was venomous, so satisfied she must have felt from her brilliant manipulation of Phoebe’s heart and mind.

  At that moment, Phoebe felt nothing but hatred for the redheaded Latina and disgust for herself for the time she’d spent with her, no matter how pleasurable it had been.

  “So, what have we been busy digging up, Mr. Holgrave?” the transformed Hester dripped as she approached him. Her pale blues scanned his blushing face and then dropped to the skull on the floor. “Oh, now, I wonder who that could be.”

  Oh, my God. I’m so stupid! Phoebe thought as the rest of Alice’s possession came to her. She remembered the impossible happening, when the room disappeared and a field of the dead stood before her in the bluish-silver moonlight. We’re standing on a burial ground. These witches, maybe the whole Pyncheon family, are nothing but serial killers!

  Hester came within a few inches of Holgrave’s face. She smiled seductively. “Well, Mr. Holgrave. Now that you can see me in person, don’t you wish you had given yourself to me?”

  “I don’t, actu—”

  “Too late!” Hester bellowed in his face and, despite her youthful beauty, she turned ugly, snarling and hateful. “Dzolali!”

  “Yes, High Priestess.”

  “Summon Mr. Onenspek,” she ordered. “I think it’s time for a household meeting.”

  Dzolali’s smile seemed molded in plastic. Her pronounced canines glinted under the neon bulbs above. Her eyes closed and her chin lifted, apparently in concentration. “He’s on his way, High Priestess.”

  “Good,” Hester granted as she studied Holgrave’s face. “I have to wonder, Mr. Holgrave, just how you were able to withstand me for lack of a better word.”

  “It wasn’t difficult,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Hester’s smile faltered and her eyebrow crept up her wrinkleless forehead.

  “We’ll see how long that smugness of yours lasts,” Hester said threateningly.

  In a blur of motion, Holgrave released Phoebe, reached back for the pickaxe with his right hand, and twisted his body to the left, bringing the large hand tool flying forward in a whipping motion.

  Phoebe jumped back, convinced that Holgrave would pierce her with it instead of Hester. She need not have worried, however, as the pickaxe never completed the journey.

  Hester raised her left hand in a gesture that resembled someone signaling for the waiter. Without a sound, the pickaxe’s movement stilled so abruptly that it appeared to have impacted something.

  Holgrave stared at the motionless tool in surprise. To him, it felt like it was stuck, as if he had pierced a mountainside. He could not free it from the nothingness that seized it.

  Glendarah and Dzolali laughed lightly.

  Hester dropped her hand to her side and appeared mildly amused. She tilted her head in sympathy and pouted her lips. “Aw,” she uttered. “Aren’t you just the cutest?”

  Hester’s companions laughed harder, Glendarah so much so that she dabbed a tear from her eye.

  Phoebe watched the exchange from her crouched position in front of the washing machine. The outrage she felt over Holgrave attacking her great-aunt Hester was but a fleeting emotion, as the young brunette before her bore no resemblance to the woman she knew as Hester Pyncheon, except perhaps from old black-and-white photographs taken when the woman was young.

  Holgrave looked past the annoyingly amused Hester Pyncheon and saw Ned Onenspek come down the steps. As Holgrave looked away, the pickaxe was torn from his grip and given flight. It crashed into the wall at his right, breaking the wood panel before falling to the floor.

  Looking to Hester, Holgrave found her hand raised again. This time, her fingers were curled, and both arms were stretched in the direction of the fallen pickaxe. An expression of arrogance was plastered on her face. She chuckled harshly, showing her teeth in glorious self-satisfaction.

  Hester turned to the sound of Ned’s footsteps. “Ah, here’s your artist, Dzolali.”

  Dzolali smiled predatorily, though she took Ned by the arm as if they were about to take a walk down the aisle. Ned appeared oblivious to anything odd going on. Instead, he gazed into Dzolali’s face like a lovesick teenager.

  Holgrave and Phoebe exchanged glances, neither knowing what to do. Hester’s unconventional disarming of Holgrave astounded them both, and at the moment, neither could think of anything but escape, though the witches and now Ned blocked their way.

  Phoebe shrugged, not knowing what to do or say. She grabbed hold of the freshly unearthed medallion and curled the material of her cotton shirt around it. What do we do?

  “Hester,” Holgrave said in a calm tone. “I’m not sure what the idea is here, but you have to—”

  With a wave akin to swatting away a winged insect, Hester sent Holgrave reeling back, where he collided with the wall, inches away from tumbling into the hole he had dug.

  “Holgrave!” Phoebe shouted, afraid for him as he struck the wall with a crack. He slid to the floor, rolled onto his side, and covered his head with his hands.

  Hester looked upon her grandniece, that look of triumph worn stiffly, masklike. The expression infuriated Phoebe, and without thinking, she launched herself from the floor, pushing off the washing machine. With arms reaching for Hester’s throat, the youngest Pyncheon lunged. Surprised, Hester slipped away in a cloud of dark smoke, leaving Phoebe to land on the floor, knees and elbows first, until she slid to a stop not far from Dzolali.

  The Latina witch laughed gleefully, covering her mouth with her free hand. Ned looked down upon the fallen Phoebe, who was shaken by the impact with the floor. He made a move to lend her a hand, but Dzolali held firm to his arm.

  “Hey, are you all—?”

  “Shhh!” interrupted Dzolali. “Never mind, Ned darling.”

  Ned straightened and turned back to stare into Dzolali’s face, forgetting Phoebe altogether.

  Phoebe looked back and found Hester standing right where she had been, though she had turned to face her grandniece. The victorious evil grin had returned.

  But it slipped, thought Phoebe, recalling Hester’s faltering expression as she lunged. She can’t read my intent.

  She saw Holgrave climb to his feet, resting much of his weight against the wall. He seemed dazed, but there was no blood. Phoebe pushed herself up to her feet, aware that Dzolali was staring into her face challengingly. She did not return the gaze. Instead she went to Holgrave.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He nodded, though not convincingly. He winced as he felt the back of his head.

  A sharp clattering of metal startled them both. Phoebe looked to the floor to find a sledgehammer and two of the largest nails she had ever seen.

  “Very carefully, Mr. Holgrave,” Hester spoke in a tone of warning. “You will do us the honor of driving those railroad spikes into the side of that support beam.” Hester pointed to the ceiling, the second to last beam before the southern wall.

  “And this seems the apropos time to inquire as to why I should do such a thing,” Holgrave said.

/>   With a hand gesture from Hester, the sledgehammer and one spike left the floor and moved through the air with no visible means of propulsion. “You’ll do what I command, or I’ll drive one into your skull myself,” she said sweetly, as if offering a child a choice of ice creams.

  Holgrave slowly reached for the floating items and took the railroad spike in his left hand. He felt no resistance as it came into his hand. The sledgehammer was likewise released into his grip. The skeptic in him searched the items and the ceiling for tricks—some sort of wire system came to his mind first. He found nothing.

  Phoebe watched as Holgrave held the spike’s pointed end to a place on the thick wooden beam, taking direction from Hester on just how and where she wanted the spike to be driven. After five hefty strikes on the head of the spike, Hester called out to him.

  “That’s enough.” The other spike lifted from the floor, obeying Hester’s hand gesture. With a flicking motion of her index and middle fingers, the spike suddenly flew, point first, into the same beam some six feet to the right of the first one.

  “Now tap that one in, Mr. Holgrave,” Hester ordered as the other two witches laughed at Holgrave’s expression.

  Holgrave did as commanded, and when he was finished, the sledgehammer was taken from his grip.

  He turned to Hester and shrugged questioningly. “Why didn’t you just do that yourself?”

  “Because watching you do it brought me joy, you stupid little man!” Hester roared.

  Phoebe watched Holgrave’s face as anger washed over his features. For a moment, she was sure he would try to rush Hester again, but whatever forces were at her command were unknown to him, so he held his ground.

  “Glendarah.”

  “Yes, High Priestess,” the blonde witch answered and stepped to Hester’s side.

  “Bind his hands and feet,” Hester ordered.

  As if it had always been there, a length of thick rope appeared in Glendarah’s demure hands. She stared daringly into the face of Holgrave as she moved closer, hoping he’d try to resist her orders.

  Instead of fighting her, Holgrave kept his hands to his sides and returned the woman’s stare. He kept his emotions blank, but the message was clear.

  Glendarah pulled his hand, and he resisted. It was Glendarah’s time to appear angry. She snapped her fingers, and the shovel at the back wall took to the air, narrowly missing Phoebe as it slid past.

  The shovel turned on its axis and brought the flat side up and back. As if the tool were in the hands of an invisible man, it swung like a baseball bat. The flat of the tool collided with Holgrave’s midsection with a fleshy clap. He folded in two as the air was forced out of his lungs. Holgrave dropped to the dusty cement floor and was left trying to suck oxygen back into himself.

  “Stop it!” Phoebe shouted and rushed Glendarah. Her legs, stretched in a long running stride, simply stopped moving forward. She almost toppled to the floor, but fortunately both feet kept some contact. It felt as if her ankles were being gripped tightly by large, powerful hands.

  “Do that again and I’ll stuff you in that machine and put it on spin!” Hester screamed, pointing at the washing machine behind Phoebe. To Ned, she said, suddenly calm and sweet once more, “Ned, be a dear and give Mr. Holgrave a hand to his feet.”

  “I would be most happy to,” answered Onenspek.

  Holgrave let his arm be taken by Ned, who asked softly, “Are you all right, Mr. Holgrave?”

  The Brit looked Ned in the face, thinking he was hearing a conspiratorial tone from the man. Instead, Onenspek’s eyes were free of focus, utterly blank as they passed over Holgrave’s features, as if he were standing a football field away.

  In any case, Holgrave responded, “Yes, I think so. Thank you, Mr. Onenspek.”

  “Anytime,” Ned said. He patted Holgrave on the shoulder, and with a child-like grin, he rejoined Dzolali.

  Phoebe knew Holgrave was hurting. He was slightly bent forward and labored to breathe. His face was reddened, and his eyes were droopy, as if he could have just lay down right on the spot and fallen asleep. He folded his arms over his chest, hugging himself, and noticed the strange manner in which Phoebe stood.

  Phoebe felt like an action figure posed as a marathon runner. The picture was spoiled by her arms, which were left free to dangle at her sides.

  Glendarah grabbed Holgrave’s wrists and expertly looped the rope around them. She then ran the rope under his arms, over his shoulders, and paused to push him in the direction of the spikes he had been made to drive. Glendarah wrapped him from ankle to shin, then around his arms and midsection. Magically, the endless rope seemed to originate from Glendarah’s sleeve, and there was enough to be looped over the spike. With that done, the blonde witch tied off the end around the door handle to the boiler room, just off the south wall.

  So bound, Holgrave could not move and could not so much as hop away from the south wall. He tested the limits and quickly found he had no options.

  Phoebe watched all of this helplessly. She did not even grasp the odd twin-moon and pentagram charm around her neck for fear that she would call attention to it. Something told her it would be a bad idea to let it be seen. She wondered about that, realizing, even though Holgrave’s Feng Shui and Pagan decorated charm had seemed to help her resist Dzolali, it was not doing a thing for him now.

  In her mind’s panic, Phoebe sent out a plea for help. Alice! Alice Pyncheon! Help us! Please!

  For a heartbeat, Phoebe thought it worked. The pressure holding her in place by the ankles lessened but did not let go. Glendarah took a step back, watching Phoebe as if she were waiting for something.

  Phoebe’s right foot, the one behind her, slid forward and lifted from the cement. The foot was planted ahead of her, and then her left foot was brought ahead in the same fashion.

  Her proximity to Glendarah was soon ideal. In an act of desperation, Phoebe swung her open right palm out and ahead. Her palm contacted Glendarah’s cheek, sending out a cracking slap that reverberated from the cellar walls.

  Glendarah dropped back a step, off balance and holding her bright red left cheek. Her eyes were surprised, angry, and a little frightened.

  What the hell? Fear? Phoebe marveled, thinking it odd that fear would ever appear on one of their faces.

  Glendarah seethed, letting out a long hiss of rage. Her closed right fist flashed out, catching Phoebe’s left temple and rocking her head back and to the right. Had the sinister force holding and guiding her legs not been there, she would have fallen. Everything went dark for a few seconds, and Phoebe fought to regain consciousness. She breathed through her nose, quickly and rhythmically.

  Phoebe’s eyesight returned, and she realized that she was staring at the ceiling. Her legs still bound, her upper body had leaned way back, giving her a dancer’s pose. Coming around, she straightened.

  “Enough of that,” Hester quipped. “Glendarah, wrap this up.”

  Phoebe was guided to the place under the second railroad spike and turned to face the coven. Holgrave was to her right. Glendarah produced another endless spool of rope, binding Phoebe in identical fashion and anchoring the rope in the same door handle behind Phoebe and Holgrave.

  “Very good,” Hester commended Glendarah, who bowed and stepped back enough to view her handiwork.

  “Now what, Auntie Hester?” Phoebe asked hotly. Her cheek was stiffening from Glendarah’s punch. Soon, it would be swollen, but in considering everything else, Phoebe thought a puffy black-and-blue cheek might turn out to be her most minor problem that day.

  “Well, Phoebe, dear. We tried to be nice,” Hester explained and stepped closely to her grandniece. “Dzolali gave you every kindness—”

  “Kindness! I was violated while I slept!” Phoebe shouted.

  Hester laughed heartily. “Violated? My, oh my. No one that Dzolali has ever shown interest in has consider
ed themselves violated.”

  “What else do you call having my dreams invaded while I’m asleep in my room?”

  “My room!” Hester howled. “The House of the Seven Gables is my home, you ungrateful, ignorant little shit!”

  “I was violated while I slept!” Phoebe insisted, spittle flying from her mouth. “I was bewitched, or drugged, or whatever you freaks call it!”

  It was clear that they’d never see it that way. Phoebe suspected as much before she ever brought it up. Tied in this way, however, Phoebe knew that she had little time left. She remembered the vision of Alice, tied and suspended the same way until her throat was cut.

  “You are a Pyncheon woman,” Hester said more calmly. The tears in her eyes over the mention of the name insulted Phoebe, however. “And you bear the witch’s mark on your neck.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve noticed,” Phoebe said with disgust.

  “And you don’t even appreciate your power—your status!” Hester said in disbelief. “You have such great potential.”

  “And yet I was violated.”

  “Oh, Goddess Hecate!” Hester called to the ceiling. “You’re so two-dimensional, Phoebe! So very short-sighted. You could one day have your own coven.”

  Sensing a dead end on that argument, Phoebe changed tactics. “Why don’t you tell Ned about how much money you’re making from his paintings?”

  Hester turned to look at Ned and Dzolali, both smiling, Ned nodding as if he were simply listening to a Sunday sermon. “Go ahead,” Hester bid as she stepped back.

  “Ned,” Phoebe began, speaking quickly, “there are paintings of yours at Pyncheon Art, priced in the thousands of dollars. They’re taking advantage of you!”

  Ned giggled and looked into Dzolali’s eyes. Then he turned to Hester. Both women remained silent and just stared back at the artist.

  “It’s true, Ned,” Holgrave took up. “I saw them. The whole gallery is full of your work. Your name is famous—known all over the world.”

  Ned met Holgrave’s eyes. His smile faded slowly. “Hester. No. Hester, you said they were going okay, but you said the market was strained. My best sale was a couple hundred dollars. Just enough for rent and supplies.”