End of Day

by Mae Clair

  Within seconds, the twin discharge of weapons split the air. The fire of Hiram’s wind rifle followed in rapid succession. One hand pressed to his torn shoulder, Gabriel limped outside.

  The beast lay on its side, its fur a macabre patchwork of blood in the raw sunlight. Despite the gaping holes drilled through its torso, it fought to raise its head. He approached slowly, Jasper one step behind. A toxic mix of fear and hatred burned in the Endling’s eyes. Gabriel expected to feel loathing, triumph for their victory. Instead, he was overcome by relief that he could put the grim hunt behind him. He fingered the emerald in his pocket.

  Hiram lowered the barrel of his gun to the monster’s head. “It’s over.”

  Gabriel turned away when the rifle blast splattered bone fragments and blood across his boots.

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Evening had settled by the time Dante pulled onto the side alley by Tessa’s brownstone and exited his 4Runner, sketchbook tucked under his arm. Traffic lumbered past on River Road, the glow of headlights cutting a swath through the gathering soot of night. Quickening his pace, he rounded the corner by a tall streetlamp, the fixture like all those lining River Road reminiscent of a bygone era.

  Maya Sinclair’s brownstone occupied the end of the row, a home he’d visited over the summer at the request of a friend. It was the last time he’d conducted a séance, reaching out to the ghost of a nineteenth-century medium who’d lingered in Maya’s house. Unfortunately, the apparition who’d answered his summons was not Lucinda Glass, but a destructive phantom of a darker nature. He hadn’t tampered with a spirit circle since. Should probably have his head examined for considering it now.

  But he couldn’t erase the memory of what he’d overheard Jillian tell the female detective in the cemetery: I heard a bell toll before the tree fell. It was a death knell.

  He could still recall the eerie peal on the night Spencer Wright died. Was it possible Jillian had seen the same unspeakable things he’d watched slip from the Aether? Creatures he’d later drawn in the sketchbook tucked under his arm?

  Most of his friends had started to shy away from him around that time. The kids at school thought he drew monsters because of what happened to his father, but he’d sketched them because he couldn’t get the hideous things out of his head. His grandmother had forced him to see a counselor after several teachers voiced their concern about the macabre things he doodled on homework assignments. He’d sucked it up for a few weeks and suffered through the sessions to pacify her, but never told anyone about the monsters he’d seen. Not even Alex Price. Alex would have spilled his guts if he’d caught so much as a glimpse of the ghouls at Hickory Chapel. Instead he drifted away like everyone else, shell-shocked by Spencer’s death.

  An accident.

  Just like the death of the man on the tractor had been accidental, both fatalities following the toll of an invisible bell. Jillian might label him crazy—think he should have his head examined—or she might be the one person in Hode’s Hill who would understand what he had to say.

  Dante jogged to the last brownstone on the corner, then sprinted up the steps. Jillian expected him, but that knowledge didn’t downplay a sudden case of nerves. It wasn’t every day he exposed his abilities to others. I can communicate with the spirit world. My monsters are real.

  Pressing his thumb on the doorbell, he counted off seconds until Jillian appeared.

  “Hi.” She offered a tentative smile. Blizzard crowded into the doorway beside her. “Come in.” She gripped the husky’s collar and urged him back, allowing Dante to enter.

  “Thanks for agreeing to chat with me.” Blizzard’s tail thumped against his leg, and he bent to greet the dog.

  “I made coffee.” Her gaze dropped briefly to the sketchbook. “Come into the kitchen.”

  He followed her down the hallway, noting the soft palette of colors that flowed from room to room. Pastels and neutral shades, nothing jarring or loud. Everything from wall tones to the bleached hardwood floors was designed to soothe. The curtains on the French doors were light and airy, the pale white of cumulous clouds, crowned by a string of fairy lights.

  Jillian motioned him to the table in the dining area, then headed to the kitchen. “I’ve got soda if you prefer.” Unlike Tessa’s home, which was cordoned off in sections, the entire area was open, creating one large sprawling room.

  “Coffee’s good. Black is fine.” Dante slid his sketchbook onto the table then crossed to the French doors. Given Jillian’s townhouse was the last in a row of six, the view from her main floor was mostly unimpeded. Twilight silvered the landscape with a veil as soft as the muted colors indoors. “You’ve got a great view. I didn’t realize you could see Hickory Chapel from here. A lot of people get freaked out by the sight of that old church.”

  “Because of the legends?” Jillian carried two mugs to the table. She set one beside his sketchbook then took a sip from hers. “I’m not frightened by them.”

  “What about the bell?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I think you should tell me why you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s sit down.” He noticed Blizzard never moved far from her side. When she sat, the dog sat beside her, his expressive eyes watching intently.

  “It’s okay, boy.” She smoothed the husky’s fur. “Lie down.” Her gaze returned to Dante. “The other day you told me you’d heard a bell, too.”

  “When I was fifteen.” Briefly, he told her about the Halloween night he, Spencer, and Alex spent in the cemetery, omitting the part about the monsters and the black dog.

  A vein of horror touched her eyes. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”

  “It was a long time ago. We were young and stupid. Never should have been screwing around up there to begin with. The whole thing was a freak accident. If Spencer hadn’t been so scared by that damn bell, he never would have blundered into the street. The thing is…” He hesitated, uncertain how receptive she’d be to the supernatural. “After it happened, I poked around in the history of Hode’s Hill. Did you know there’s a legend that says hearing a church bell at Hickory Chapel is a sign you, or someone close to you, will die soon?”

  Her mouth tightened. She fingered the tinted glasses looped around her neck. “I’ve heard that.”

  “Has it occurred to you that both Spencer and the man on the tractor died after hearing the bell toll?”

  “His name was Henry Teale.” Lowering her head, she averted her gaze. “He was wearing a hard headset like construction workers use. I doubt he ever heard the ringing.”

  “Even so, it signaled his death. As unexpected as Spencer’s.”

  She continued to look away, her shoulders growing rigid, muscles tightening as if she sought to shut down. Something was happening he couldn’t explain, as if the woman across from him battled an unseen force. He detected nothing of a supernatural nature, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He wasn’t always able to navigate the layers of the Netherworld. If a spirit was present, it moved through the Aether beyond his reach.

  “Jillian, what’s wrong?”

  Her face crumpled. Frantically, she groped for her glasses.

  “Jillian, look at me.” He stretched across the table and stayed her hand.

  Heaving a sigh, she raised her head. Her gaze swiveled to catch his, the green of her eyes swallowed by the full black moons of her pupils.

  Stunned, he pulled away. “My God, you’re an empath.”

  * * * *

  Unable to mask her shock, Jillian drew back. She no longer thought about hiding behind her glasses even though the overhead light stung her eyes. Her mind had been caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts surrounding Henry Teale—his wife, children, family. People she didn’t know but whose pain she continued to channel as if it were her own. Once started on that path, her empathic nature kicked into overdrive, th
reatening to shatter her heart.

  And then Dante had said the unthinkable. “My God, you’re an empath.”

  She stared, open-mouthed. “How did you know?”

  Bonelessly, he slumped in his chair. “Your pupils are a dead giveaway.”

  She didn’t buy it. “No one else would put two and two together like that.” A shockwave pulsed against her temples, spurred by realization. “Most of what I feel comes from empathy, but there’s a small part that goes beyond that. A semi-psychic ability that allows me to key in on the emotions of others.” There was no sense denying the truth when he saw so plainly. “Normally, I have to enforce a mental wall to keep those feelings out. They can be overwhelming. But from the moment I met you…” She leaned forward, bracing her forearms on the table. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. “I haven’t been able to read you at all. You have your own shields in place.”

  Dante’s gaze was direct. “You’re perceptive.”

  Something didn’t add up. “You’re not an empath.” It was becoming easier to think, thoughts of Henry growing scattershot, less distinct. “But you’ve managed to erect your own buffers. It isn’t emotions you want to keep out.” Her heartbeat quickened, her breath catching in her throat. “You can sense the spirit world.”

  “Well done.” His smile was tight. “Before coming to see you, I’d hoped you’d be open to that possibility. Your empathic nature should make it easier for you to believe what I have to say.”

  She wasn’t certain she wanted to hear. “Which is?”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Hiding behind her coffee cup, she took a slow sip and studied him across the brim. “What if I said yes?”

  “If that’s the case, I think you might be receptive to my suspicions about Hickory Chapel Cemetery. I’m convinced something horrible must have happened there a long time ago. Something unspeakable.”

  She shifted uneasily. “Such as?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it’s tied to what’s going on now—the tree, the accident…”

  “There have been other accidents.” She told him about the reports from her news app and the incident she’d witnessed on Barrington Avenue.

  His brows drew together. “You think they’re related?”

  “I know they are.”

  “How?”

  She shook her head. “You first.”

  “Fair enough.” He was silent for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts. He fingered the edge of the sketchbook. “My father died when I was fifteen. His death triggered something in me. Not long after, I started to sense the spirit world.”

  “You think he passed a gift to you?” She’d heard of such things happening but had never encountered anyone with an inherited power. When it came down to it, she’d never encountered anyone with a spiritual gift at all.

  “Maybe. A few others in my family had the same gift. I think I was always connected to the Aether, but as a kid I wrote off most of my experiences as déjà vu or the result of an overactive imagination. The first true encounter I had was the night Spencer died.”

  “The bell.”

  “It was more than that. I saw things. A large black dog—”

  “The guardian of the church.”

  “You know about that?”

  Her mouth had gone dry. In all the years she’d tended Gabriel’s grave, she’d never seen him manifest. Many of her ancestors believed he would assume the guardian form of a dog if and when he did, keeping with ancient tradition. “A church grim.” She wet her lips, tightening her hands around her coffee mug. On the floor, Blizzard shifted as if sensing a change in her mood. “According to folklore, the grim is a guardian spirit. Its job is to protect the souls of those in the graveyard from devils, witches, and thieves. Night creatures or anyone who would try to profane hallowed ground. When someone is slated to die, the grim tolls the church bell.”

  Dante studied her across the table. She didn’t have to be a mind reader to know he was thinking of Spencer and Henry Teale.

  “There’s more.” It was suddenly hot in the room, as if the walls closed in. She tried to stay focused, forcing herself to breath evenly. Blizzard pushed to a sitting position and nudged her leg. She dropped her hand onto his back, taking comfort in his presence. “A dog was often buried alive beneath the cornerstone of the church. When it died, its spirit took the form of a grim.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened at Hickory Chapel Cemetery?” Dante’s expression hovered between interest and revulsion. “That somewhere prior to the founding of Hode’s Hill, our ancestors rounded up a dog and sealed the poor thing in a tomb?”

  “No.” She said the word so softly, it barely carried. Eyes downcast, she studied her coffee, the brown liquid the same murky hue as a freshly turned grave. “Someone else was meant to be the guardian spirit of Hickory Chapel. You asked me before why I was in the cemetery.” Her gaze flashed to his face. “I was there to visit a grave. The first one ever set in that place. It belongs to Gabriel Vane.”

  Dante’s brow crinkled. “Isn’t that the guy they dug up? Someone stole his bones?”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t keep the disgust from her voice. “But no one understands the importance. Death draws darkness—monsters and creatures of the Aether. It’s always been the way of cemeteries, but there has always been a protector to chain those monstrosities in place. With Gabriel gone, they’re no longer restrained and are free to roam the city. They’ll seek out descendants of those buried at Hickory Chapel. I bet every one of the people who suffered an accident recently has an ancestor buried in the cemetery.” She slumped in her chair when he made no reply. “You think I’m insane, don’t you?”

  “No. But I want to know how you know all this.”

  She drew a deep breath. Out of options and in need of an ally, she told him of the three deaths.

  “Why is it your job to ensure Vane is never forgotten?”

  “Because my family is connected to his. One of my ancestors, Atticus Crowe, was a village elder before the founding of Hode’s Hill. The story is that a horrible plague swept through the community. Many people died, but Gabriel was the first. Atticus oversaw his burial in the cemetery. A number of men gathered and formed a power circle, praying over him, asking that his spirit become the guardian of those who were buried afterward. Atticus lost two of his four children to the plague. I’m descended through his oldest son, Enoch.”

  Dante tapped his fingers lightly against the sketchbook. “It’s your job to ensure he’s never forgotten in order that there’s always a protector?”

  “More or less. I have a sister, too.” She rarely spoke of Madison to others. Whatever walls Dante had held in place were gone. No longer guarded, he’d allowed her to see the side of him he secreted from the world. That trust spurred her to do the same. The only other person who understood her empathic nature was Sherre, and even she had been skeptical at the start. Still was at times. Dante was not only receptive to her abilities but had sensed them. His gift was every bit as burdensome as her own, making him the ideal person to confide in.

  “Madison is in a private care facility in Palmer Point. I was coming back from visiting her the day my car battery died near Wickham.”

  He nodded as if recalling the incident. “Is she ill?”

  “Not physically. She was born with the same empathic abilities I have. Three years ago, she witnessed her husband’s murder. The shock shattered her mind.”

  His face contorted. “My God.”

  Jillian dug the fingers of one hand into Blizzard’s fur, kneading rhythmically to ground herself. “The man she married got involved with the wrong people. Drugs, maybe more—we don’t know everything Boyd was mixed up in. He lived a double life, but most of it didn’t come out until after his death.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They had a s
mall house across from me on Mill Street. I was renting at the time.” She steeled herself to continue. “It was fun having them as neighbors at first, but then people started showing up at all hours of the day and night to see Boyd. I tried to tell Madison something was going on, but she didn’t believe me. One morning, a few hours before dawn, I heard sirens. By the time I got across the street, cops were pouring into the driveway. I didn’t even think—I just blundered into the house. Madison was on the floor cradling Boyd’s head in her lap. He’d been stabbed repeatedly.” The sight washed over her even as she fought to dial back the pain and emotion the memory resurrected. “There was so much blood.”

  Dante reached across the table and gripped her hand. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  She shook her head. “Madison’s never been the same since. She hasn’t said a word in three years. Sherre Lorquet, the detective I spoke with at the cemetery, was an officer on the case. She’s the one who suggested I adopt a therapy dog to help me through the trauma.” She turned a wistful smile on Blizzard. “I only wish the solution would have been as easy for Madison.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “That she has to come out of it on her own. I keep hoping, but nothing ever changes. The worst part is they never caught the person or persons responsible.”

  Grimacing, Dante shoved his coffee aside. “I’m sorry, Jillian. There are too many monsters in the real world. If anyone can reach your sister, I would think it would be you.”

  “I used to think so too, but after three years, I’m not certain. She lives in a different world, trapped in her head. In the past.”

  “If you think it would help, I’ll visit her.”

  She tilted her head, surprised he would make the offer. “How would that help?”

  “I don’t know that it would, but sometimes when people are trapped in limbo, they’re more open to the spiritual world. Part of my gift is picking up impressions of events that happened in the past. Do you know Maya Sinclair?”

  “Of course. She lives on the opposite corner.” Jillian had become friendly with Maya after the librarian moved into the end unit brownstone last year. “We grab lunch together now and then, and sometimes she joins me when I’m walking Blizzard.” How did you say you were causal friends without sounding like a snob?