666 Gable Way

by Dani Lamia

  Hester said nothing. Her grin was crooked, her brow arched as if to say ‘I told you so.’ Dzolali shared the expression, and when the three witches exchanged glances, their giggles quickly expanded to laughter.

  Ned, thinking he was being put on by someone, but unsure of just whom, smiled and let out a chuckle. With his arm around Dzolali, he hugged her tightly to him. She embraced him right back, but there was something sinister in her eyes that Phoebe didn’t like.

  “That’s a good one, guys! Real funny!” Ned shook his finger at Holgrave and Phoebe.

  “Ned,” Phoebe tried again. “You are making these people rich off your work. I searched your name on the internet when we were in town.”

  “People are clamoring for your paintings, Ned,” Holgrave said. “Sold even for second-hand profits. The gallery is charging thousands, not hundreds.”

  “And they are selling,” Phoebe assured him.

  Ned was no longer smiling. “What? What?” He looked to Dzolali, confused and pleading. But there was something else.

  Is he about to crack or did it work? Will he help us?

  Onenspek’s facial muscles relaxed and he seemed to collapse onto Dzolali, who was quite strong enough to hold him upright. Her smile never faltered as she let the man slide down her body. Ned’s limp form fell to the cement with a skull-cracking smack.

  In Dzolali’s left hand was a long, curved blade, covered in dark red blood, as was her right hand. Dzolali’s eyes settled on Onenspek with dispassion.

  “Well, now,” Hester said to Phoebe. “Don’t you feel better now that you got all that off your chest?”

  Phoebe whimpered, too disgusted, too frightened, too guilty to look away from the dead artist, whose life’s blood was collecting in a rough circle around him. He had fallen facing away from the captives, but Phoebe saw his sides expand and contract with breath.

  “Ned? Ned!” Holgrave called out.

  “You’re a fucking monster, Hester,” Phoebe cursed through sobs. “You’re all fucking monsters!”

  Furthering Phoebe’s rage, the witches roiled with amusement, their laughter surpassing her sobs in volume. Phoebe fought the ropes, pointlessly twisting and pulling, contorting and pushing, but with no result. She soon exhausted herself, much to the delight of the witches.

  Wishing to switch Hester’s attention from Phoebe, Holgrave said, “So, what was the purpose in killing him? He would have willingly continued painting for you.”

  Hester sidestepped and faced Holgrave, coming close enough that they could smell each other. Hester knew the Brit was familiar with it and used her proximity to her advantage. “And now, with Mr. Onenspek gone, his works, of which we have a small truckload, will double, perhaps triple in value for a time before the market gets saturated and prices drop. Best not have too many works of genius around the house.”

  “You still didn’t have to kill him,” Holgrave insisted. “I doubt he would have said anything. He seemed happy enough.”

  “Bah!” Dzolali spat as she wiped the blood from her blade. “Good riddance. I won’t be able to get his filthy stench off me for months. Sick little pervert.”

  “You see?” Hester said to Holgrave as if Dzolali had proved a point. “We’re happier he’s gone. And if we’re happy, well, honestly, that’s all that matters.”

  “And I’m next. Is that right?” Holgrave asked challengingly.

  Hester gave him a quick scan from feet to face. “I don’t see any reason to keep you. You’re quite more valuable to us as a sacrifice.”

  “And what about her?” he asked with a tilt of his head toward Phoebe.

  Hester turned to Phoebe and put her hands on her hips. “She had her chance.”

  “Chance to what, Aunt Hester?” Phoebe retorted. “Join your sick little group? Why?”

  “Oh, you would have been a priceless addition, dear,” Hester said and stepped close to her grandniece. “You have no idea of your power. You could have been the best of us . . . in time.”

  “Why? So I can con some poor artist into painting for me? What’s it all for, Hester?”

  “The house needs to survive,” Hester answered. “However powerful the coven becomes, the House of the Seven Gables still has earthly needs.”

  Dzolali came closer, watching Phoebe’s face intently, hungrily.

  Hester continued. “I could have taught you so much about what you are and what you can do.”

  As her great-aunt spoke, Phoebe felt Hester move into her thoughts. It was a harsh invasion, a sickening surrender of her mind’s control. Hester’s very being walked into Phoebe’s with ease, imposing images of things that were and what could have been. The basement all but disappeared, replaced by whatever Hester wanted Phoebe to experience.

  Phoebe saw the gargoyle that appeared in her nightmare, the one that had picked Phoebe from her bed and dropped her that impossible distance. Its black flesh, the deep gray teeth and long black shiny claws shimmered in her mind’s eye. Phoebe relived the drop to the bedroom floor and let out a long cry of terror.

  “What are you doing to her?” Holgrave shouted. “Stop!”

  Phoebe heard Holgrave’s voice and grasped onto it, seeing the image of her hands reaching out to his, appearing from the darkness as she remained in freefall. Holgrave sounded as if he had moved quite some distance from her, though his hands were right in front of her, disembodied and matching her rate of fall.

  Phoebe reaffirmed her vision of taking a hold of his hands, and the sensation of falling slowed, then ceased. The gargoyle snarled from quite close by, just above her, from the sound.

  Hester’s defeat was not permanent, and her assault flowed in a different direction. The venue shifted to the master bedroom’s balcony. Here Phoebe stood, unbound and clothed in a gloriously elegant black gown, with the hands of Dzolali and Hester on her shoulders. Wordlessly, they smiled upon her as if Phoebe were their pupil.

  The sound of canvas, or perhaps something made of burlap, came to her ears. Phoebe thought of a tent coming loose in a high wind. Looking up, however, she saw the gargoyle return in flight. It landed upon the stone-tiled balcony hard and sent vibrations through Phoebe’s feet.

  Phoebe stared up into the beast’s horrifying face. It was dripping water onto the balcony, but it was not water alone. Phoebe looked down and saw the twirls of red within the clear water and knew it was blood. The fact came to her by Hester’s unspoken narration, the story told in pictures and feelings rather than words.

  It was the blood of Kenneth Hillsborough, the son-in-law of Darla Carp and president of the White Lake City Council. The man that had wanted to appropriate the land upon which the House of the Seven Gables sat had been killed by this black beast that towered over Phoebe and the two witches.

  Phoebe wanted to back away, but Dzolali and Hester held her in place. The gargoyle bent to bring its face closer, and in the reflection of the eyes of onyx stone was the reflection of Glendarah, her arms spread in mockery of the gargoyle.

  But it was not a mockery, Phoebe found, for the beast receded to nothingness and the demure figure of Glendarah filled its place. She was soaked through, her blonde hair had darkened and had become plastered to her head. Glendarah’s black dress was wrinkled with moisture, the maxi skirt clinging to her legs as water and blood seeped onto the balcony’s surface.

  Glendarah was the gargoyle. She had killed Hillsborough. She had tormented Phoebe in the night, coming to the aid of Dzolali, whose passion could not contain Phoebe’s will.

  The scene of Hillsborough’s death was brought to Phoebe’s mind as seen from the eyes of the gargoyle. Phoebe cried out in horror, but what came to her ears was the creature’s terrifying howl. Entrapped in the gargoyle’s point-of-view, Phoebe watched the man be torn into by the claws and then the mouth biting down into the defenseless human’s throat.

  Phoebe could taste the blood j
ust as if she had been the creature herself. It was Glendarah’s memory of the attack, Phoebe tried to remind herself, but the vibrant color of the night and the flowing blood was just as vivid as the hours she had spent in Dzolali’s company.

  Phoebe yearned for Dzolali at that moment. She wanted away from the gargoyle, away from the awful blood and gore of the dying Hillsborough, and into the arms of Dzolali. Water lily and vanilla needed to cover the wretched, wet iron smell of blood, and so it did.

  Phoebe tasted Dzolali on her lips and felt the Latina witch’s heat once again. The gargoyle was gone, pleasantly gone, and in place of it, Phoebe received the gift of her love’s attentions.

  Phoebe opened her eyes and found the copper eyes of Dzolali staring into her face, half-closed in passion. Dzolali needed Phoebe, wanted her forever, if only, if only . . .

  Phoebe saw herself and Dzolali standing together, joined in unholy matrimony, as the High Priestess Hester Pyncheon and her own love, Glendarah D’Amitri, looked on. The future Phoebe was grandly dressed, somehow taller, more voluptuous, adorned fully in her black Victorian gown and high-heeled boots, her fingers lavishly festooned with rings of power, her neck bearing charms of black magic, and her eyes hard and cruel. Her blonde hair was done up high and voluminous, decorated with a tiara of silver and gold. Tiny metal skulls hung from her ears, and decorative piercings had been pressed through the flesh of her nose and blackened lips.

  Phoebe focused on the vision of the woman she could be, a wiccan so powerful that her energy glowed in red and blue orbs in her palms. No one could touch her, no one could stand against her and the House of the Seven Gables. Those that dared would be destroyed.

  A scene of the town of White Lake came to Phoebe’s mind. It was burning, and the dark witch, the future Phoebe Pyncheon, floated above it, leveling the buildings with her glowing missiles of supernatural power.

  She watched as her future self set the town, then the state, then the world, on fire. Repulsed, Phoebe screamed, fighting against her restraints, thinking of nothing but pushing herself away from Dzolali and Hester, who tormented her while Glendarah watched with a smile. Phoebe screamed again and again to make it all stop.

  “No!” Phoebe bellowed, and Dzolali was sent reeling back. Her hands pinwheeled as the young witch tried to recover her balance, and she would have had she not been so disarmed by the surprising rush of power from her would-be victim.

  Dzolali tripped on the body of Ned Onenspek and landed hard on her back, the bottoms of her shoes slick with the man’s blood. She avoided hitting her head on the cement by tucking her chin to her chest. She came to rest having not taken her shocked and angry eyes from Phoebe’s face.

  Hester was also pushed back a step or two. She shot her grandniece a look of surprise and quickly shelved it, turning her expression passive. She caught movement from her left and turned in time to see Dzolali charging Phoebe, the small dagger in her hand.

  “Wait!” Hester demanded and flung her arm up. Her fingers curled, not into a fist, but close, as if she were catching a ball.

  Dzolali froze mid-step with the blade raised. Her long, black cherry hair streamed behind her, like she was trapped in a windstorm.

  Hester stepped to Dzolali and removed the knife from her grip. “Not just yet,” she said. “Her power is ours to absorb, through the sacrifice to Panas.”

  “Yes, High Priestess,” Dzolali said resignedly. Her teeth were clenched and her eyes hot with rage, but she relaxed as Hester wished. Slowly, she was released from Hester’s power and left to stand on her own.

  Hester moved to Phoebe, getting close enough to whisper. “You have little time left, and all the powers you’re capable of will never be realized, never be implemented. When the witching hour comes, your blood is ours.”

  Phoebe was too frightened to speak. The horrific images that Hester had planted in her mind echoed, and so much more became evident in those echoes. Like the beach erodes with every passing crash of the waves, more and more of the coven’s misdeeds became exposed.

  The image of Darla Carp slipped into Phoebe’s mind. The woman was hanging from a rope in her garage at that very moment. Phoebe watched Hester walk to the stairs, and as she did, the short mental image of Hester showing up to the Carp residence followed, like a superimposed image over an old movie.

  Phoebe watched helplessly as the scene unfolded in her mind’s eye like it was a page from Phoebe’s own memory, as if she had tagged along. Phoebe saw Hester enter the Carp home, unexpected and unwanted. She bewitched Darla Carp into tying her own noose, slowly, methodically, as if in a trance. Phoebe watched the woman put her head through it and maneuver a short stepstool into place underneath a support beam. Darla’s eyes were empty, staring at nothing but the closed garage door. Hester tied the other end of the rope around a hook on the wall meant for a gardening tool. Without a second thought or hesitation, Hester kicked the stool out from under Carp and exited the garage.

  Carp’s neck snapped when she reached the end of the rope. Her end followed within seconds, her complexion deepened to blue and her eyes strained against the lids, nearly bursting beyond their sockets.

  Phoebe wept. It could no longer be prevented or restrained. It was all too much.

  “Phoebe,” Holgrave called to her gently.

  Phoebe could only muster a shake of her head. The crying would not be stopped so easily.

  Holgrave let it go. There was no reason to not let Phoebe weep. The coven left them to the basement with only the body of Ned Onenspek to keep them company. Holgrave was grateful for the small favor of them leaving Ned facing away, though the dark red blood seeping from the body was a slowly widening pool. The footprint left from Dzolali’s trip had already filled in and she had tracked it onto the floor and up the stairs.

  With her hands bound, Phoebe could not wipe away the streaks of tears. She blinked her eyesight clear and turned to see Holgrave straining against the ropes, fruitlessly trying to free himself.

  Giving her own rope another tug with feet and hands, she noted they didn’t give, or even slide along her flesh when she moved.

  For a long moment, Phoebe and Holgrave looked to one another in silence. The ropes were tight and made breathing difficult. Phoebe found that struggling against it was exhausting.

  “Save your strength,” she said.

  “For what, exactly?” he asked, exasperated.

  To this, she had no answer. She sighed and looked away. Finding only Ned’s corpse again, she closed her eyes.

  21

  Sacrifice

  Even tied uncomfortably tight, Phoebe’s and Holgrave’s exhaustion won out. Both had drifted to an uneven, fragile sleep, broken when their bodies relaxed enough to pull the rope more tightly around their ribs.

  Phoebe had no idea how much time had gone by, but it seemed like more than an hour, maybe two.

  “Holgrave?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s the witching hour?” she asked.

  Holgrave turned to her. “It’s between three a.m. and four.”

  “Is that central time or what?” she asked and gave him a weak smile that did nothing to cover her fear.

  Holgrave returned it. “That is a very good question.”

  Shortly afterward, they could hear footsteps on the floor above. The basement door opened, and heavily heeled footsteps announced their company. A pair of black ankle-high boots appeared first, followed by the long skirt of Hester’s dress. She reached the floor, her water blue eyes inspecting her captives, including Ned, as if making sure he was dead.

  Glendarah and Dzolali followed right behind Hester, deliberately descending the stairs, carrying the birdcage from either side.

  Oh, great. What the hell is this? Phoebe thought. Visions of the raven pecking Ned’s dead eyes out of his head came to her, and she nearly wretched.

  Hester and Glendarah k
ept their youthful appearance in place. Phoebe wondered just how powerful a witch had to be to create such an illusion.

  “Thank you for your patience,” Hester said and chuckled. She stepped past Onenspek, carefully avoiding the pool of blood that had expanded greatly since the coven had left.

  Dzolali and Glendarah set the birdcage on the floor. The fabric cover was over it, so the only clue Phoebe had of the bird’s presence within was a brief rustling of wings.

  Phoebe looked to Hester’s hands and found her mother’s bowl, taken from her Caprice’s trunk.

  Hester noticed Phoebe’s eyes land on the heirloom. “I remember you mentioning that you brought it with you. I thought it appropriate that we use it during the proceedings.”

  Phoebe didn’t have to ask what for. She remembered what Alice Pyncheon’s ghost had revealed to her. She felt faint, knowing that she and Holgrave were to meet the same fate.

  Oh, God. Help us, she thought. She gave her wrists a twist, but the rope held firm, giving her no indication that it had any weakness whatsoever. Phoebe was certain that if the coven decided to leave them alone, the rope itself could serve as the sole instrument of their deaths. It would just take time. Somehow, that was worse than the sacrifice she knew was coming.

  Hester strode up to Phoebe. “I don’t suppose you’ve come to change your mind about joining my coven.”

  Phoebe decided to lie. “I’d never,” she said, her voice shaky. The truth was, Phoebe was well beyond panic and had considered acquiescing. But she thought of how Onenspek had been used then discarded, and then how Darla Carp had been manipulated to get to Kenneth Hillsborough, who had wanted to see the House of the Seven Gables destroyed to develop the land.

  And the police don’t intimidate them, Phoebe thought as she recalled Detective Backstrom. Phoebe knew that, even if she joined her great-aunt Hester with the intent of betraying her later to make her escape, there would be no true escape.