by Mae Clair
Dante seemed to read between the lines. “A few months ago, I helped Maya rid her home of a ghost that had become trapped in the Aether, unable to move forward in her spiritual journey. I picked up impressions of events that happened in Maya’s house. I’m not saying I’ll be able to pick anything up from Madison, but I’m willing to give it a try if you think it might help.”
She’d experimented with everything else when medical doctors and psychologists failed. Spiritual counselors, homeopathic remedies, a Reiki master. At one point she’d even hired a hypnotist to regress Madison to a point before Boyd’s death. Nothing worked.
“Thank you for offering.” A hesitant smile touched her lips. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“What about Friday?”
“Okay.”
He nodded. “We’ll work out the details. Right now, I need you to look at something. Remember when you said cemeteries attract monsters from the Aether?” He shoved the sketchbook across the table. “Look inside. I drew those when I was fifteen.”
Uncertain what she would find, Jillian opened the cover. The image on the first page made her stifle a gasp. The atrocity spawned a string of gooseflesh on her arms. Steeling herself, she turned the page. Dante was silent as she flipped through the sketches, each one more horrific than the last.
He’d drawn things of nightmare. Creatures that dangled from trees or wrapped around tombstones. Monstrosities with double heads, bloated flesh, protruding fangs, tattered wings. Unspeakable horrors that slithered over the ground, loped on all fours, or oozed from burrows. Beasts with disjointed limbs, gummy tentacles, and scythe-like horns. By the time she reached the end, she felt defiled, touched by something unholy. Breathing deeply, she flipped the cover shut.
Dante’s gaze was steady. “Did you notice the similarity in each sketch?”
Her mouth was too dry to speak. She shook her head.
“Look again.”
Her reluctance must have shown.
“It’s important, Jillian.”
She rubbed her temple, glanced down at Blizzard, who watched her intently. Finally, she propped her elbow on the table, cupped her forehead in her palm, and opened the cover. She’d paged through three sketches before she realized what he wanted her to see. Stunned, she sat up and flipped through the previous drawings to be certain. Suspicions confirmed, she rifled to the end of the book. A single element appeared in every sketch.
“The monsters—creatures—whatever they are. They’re all chained to something.”
“Or were.”
Her stomach rolled over. “It’s as I feared. They’ve been released on Hode’s Hill to seek out the descendants of the people buried in the cemetery.”
“What about the accident you saw on Barrington Avenue?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe their reach extends past Hode’s Hill, or maybe that really was just an unfortunate accident. A coincidence given the timing.” She pushed from her chair and started to pace. “This is horrible. All those years I believed a tradition passed down through my family, but you’ve proved it’s real. Somehow, I have to convince Sherre to focus on finding Gabriel’s remains. As long as he isn’t in his resting place, he can’t fulfill the duty of guardian. Who knows what kind of havoc these things can create.” Whirling, she spun to face him. “You’re connected to the supernatural. You’ve even seen these things, which is more than I have. Isn’t there a way to stop them?”
“I don’t have an answer to that.” He’d turned sideways in his chair to face her, one arm looped over the back. “Up until a few minutes ago, I didn’t even know why those things were in the cemetery.” He stood, then joined her near the French doors. Blizzard hovered close by, keyed to her mood. “I came here because I overheard you mention the bell. I thought you might have seen the same things I did the night Spencer died. Now that I know you didn’t, I have to chalk the experience up to my affinity with the spirit world.”
Jillian gazed up at him, frightened by the thoughts ping-ponging in her head. It was one matter to know the removal of Gabriel’s bones would result in accidents for innocent people, another to realize the horrific creatures behind those mishaps. Such abominations would stop at nothing short of—
Death.
The thought drilled through her with the power of lightning.
“I have to call Sherre.” She darted for the kitchen, where she snatched her cell phone from the counter. Frantically, she punched out a series of numbers.
“What are you doing?” Dante followed as far as the large center island.
“Every one of those people I told you about—they all died.”
“Yeah?”
She pressed the phone to her ear, listening as it cycled through a series of rings. “I don’t know what happened to the woman on Barrington Avenue. If she—”
“Lorquet.” Sherre’s no-nonsense greeting echoed in her ear.
“Sherre, it’s Jillian.” She held up a hand to stall Dante as she spoke into the phone. “I just wanted to check and see how the cyclist was after the accident today. Did you hear anything?”
“Just a short while ago.” Sherre released a breath, her tone casual now that she recognized her caller. “I was going to phone you later. The woman’s going to be all right. She has a broken arm, multiple bruises, and a concussion, but nothing life threatening.”
“Thank God.” Wired only moments before, Jillian deflated with relief. “What about the driver?”
“Uninjured. Shaken up as hell, but that’s understandable. We’re still working out the details. The boyfriend’s a witness, and there was a bystander who saw the whole thing, so we’ll get it sorted. I’m just thankful no one was seriously hurt.”
“Me, too.” Jillian considered pressing about Gabriel but sensed now wasn’t the time. “Thanks, Sherre.” She needed to focus on Dante. After she hung up, she turned to face him. He squatted beside Blizzard, roughing the husky’s fur as if recognizing the dog was keyed to her moods.
“The woman I saw hurt in Palmer Point is going to be okay. She was injured, but nothing too serious.” As she rounded the island, Dante stood.
“You still haven’t explained—”
“Maybe she isn’t part of what’s happening, or maybe she was just lucky.” Jillian gave Blizzard a few pats so he’d know she was okay, then crossed to the pantry where she kept his treats. “The whole accident could have been a coincidence.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“I still think the only way of preventing more accidents from happening is to find Gabriel’s bones and return them to his grave.”
Blizzard crossed the kitchen and sat attentively as she fished a biscuit from a bag of dog treats. “I can appeal to Sherre again, but maybe there’s another way of finding out what happened.” Blizzard took his treat gently, then carted it off a few paces to chew with his head lowered.
Jillian refocused on Dante. “If you really can communicate with the dead, could you reach Gabriel?”
“Maybe.” Dante rubbed the back of his neck. He blew out a breath then paced to the glass doors, where he stood staring into the night. Twilight had already faded, replaced by the slant of licorice shadows and a faint glimmer of starlight. Farther away, an occasional car passed, the red gleam of taillights swallowed by distance. “I’ve been thinking of trying to communicate with a spirit—any spirit—connected to Hickory Chapel, but severing the veil between the living and the dead isn’t without danger.”
She stepped to his side. “But you said you helped Maya.”
“I did.” His mouth tightened as he stared down on her. “The séance I held wasn’t without risk. Sometimes, when you try to summon a particular spirit, something else might answer. There are no safeguards.”
Her heartbeat quickened. She understood what he was trying to tell her. Anyone or anything could answer that call.
Including the monsters of Hickory Chapel Cemetery.
Chapter 9
October 14, 1799
It took two days’ journey to return to the village, the beast draped over the pack mule, secured with rope. Gabriel felt sorry for the animal burdened with the Endling, the reek of the carcass enough to make him gag. Even with the beast dead, no longer a threat, the horses remained jittery. When they stopped for a brief rest near noon of the second day, he found a stream and washed the welts on his chest. The shock of cold water sent deep shudders through his body, spasms that not even several swigs of hard cider could mute. Jasper applied an herbal salve and makeshift bandage, but the pain was getting harder to ignore.
Hiram studied him as he mounted his horse. “I nary suffered a scratch or bite from the beasts I hunted, and can’t speak to the consequences, but you are clearly flush with fever. The sooner we return to the village, the better.”
Jasper eyed him with concern. “Can you ride?”
“Of course I can.” Gathering his reins, Gabriel hunched deeper into his coat. He didn’t know if he was hot or cold, only that with each minute that passed, his misery intensified. By the time they neared the village, his head throbbed and his hair hung lank with sweat. The sun drooped low on the horizon, casting exaggerated shadows across farms and fields. Cyrus Herman spied them just shy of town and raced ahead to sound the alarm.
It didn’t take long for people to pour into the streets, all crowding close, all eager for a glimpse of the Endling. Within moments, they were surrounded. Gabriel could barely breathe. Any excitement he’d felt for their triumph had vanished. Hiram cut the beast free, and it struck the ground with a thud. Putrid fluid oozed from its mouth, anus, and ears, but no one seemed to mind the sickly stench, too intoxicated by the victory of its death. Men thumped Gabriel on the back as he slid from his horse. Pumped his hand, immune to the effort it took him to stay on his feet. Barely conscious of the accolades, he fought through the crowd. The only person he wanted to see was Dinah.
He spied her a few feet from the throng, waiting as she’d promised she would be. Her eyes lit with joy, the exultation on her face so pure, that for a single blissful moment he forgot his pain.
“Gabriel!” She threw herself into his arms, hugging him close. “Praise the Heavens! I have been so worried for you, my love. I have already told Father should you seek my hand, he must accept your proposal. Now that you are safely returned to me, surely we can marry.”
“Marry…yes.” He tried to embrace her, but his arms slid free, too heavy to hold upright. Fire blazed through him. Pasted his clothes to his skin with perspiration.
“Gabriel.” Dinah clutched his face between her palms, her voice turning shrill. “Heavens, what is wrong? Why did I not notice before?”
He tried to speak, but no sound came from his throat. The noise of the crowd grew muddy, far away. Gravity opened the ground beneath him, and the street upended to crack against his face. With a grunt, he rolled onto his back. Dinah bent over him, her lovely features contorted in a mask of fear. His gaze dropped to her lips. He watched as her mouth moved, but her words were swept away by the reedy drone in his ears.
His eyes rolled into his head, and a heavy veil of darkness swallowed him whole.
* * * *
Present Day
Each time Jillian opened the paper, scrolled through her news app, or turned on the TV, she hoped to hear Gabriel’s remains had been found. But as the days passed without an update, she feared the case had been forgotten. In an effort to make Sherre understand the importance, she phoned the detective and asked to meet her for lunch. They picked a place for Thursday, and after some small talk, Jillian spilled her tale. After chatting with Dante—after stringing all the moldy pieces of folklore together—she knew she couldn’t hold back.
Sherre listened silently, her mouth set in a frown as Jillian told her about the plague that swept through Hode’s Hill when it was no more than a village. Of Gabriel’s death and how Atticus Crowe and others had formed a power circle over him, anointing him through prayer as the guardian of Hickory Chapel.
Jillian talked until her mouth was dry. Until the turkey/avocado melt she’d ordered had grown cold, her iced tea warm. When she was through, Sherre wiped her mouth with a napkin then slid it under her plate.
“You do realize I’m a detective?”
Caught off guard by the question, Jillian drew back. “Of course, I do.”
“Then think about what that means.” Though Sherre’s voice was pitched low, it carried the crack of a whip. “Detect. Clues. Logic.” Each word was clipped, bitten off with frustration. “Jillian, I bought into you being an empath. I bought into your philosophy of why Madison is a shell, empty of all except some ungodly memory of her husband being butchered.”
Jillian flinched.
“But you can’t expect me to believe in hobgoblins and monsters. Accidents and death—because without some ghostly guardian, the denizens of Hell have been unleashed on Hode’s Hill.” Shaking her head, she fished a few bills from her jacket, then dropped them on the table. “Lunch is on me. I have to go.” She stood, ready to leave.
“Wait!” Panicked, Jillian gripped her wrist. “I know it sounds crazy, but before you met me, you never would have believed in an empath either.”
Sherre’s scowl dug deeper. “That’s beside the point.”
“Then prove me wrong. Look into the deaths I told you about. I bet every single one of the people who died has an ancestor buried in Hickory Chapel Cemetery. Henry Teale, too.”
A look of discomfort crossed Sherre’s face. She pulled her hand free and slid it into her pocket.
Immediately, Jillian keyed in on what she didn’t say. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Sherre glanced away briefly, the quick shift of her eyes, confirmation. “Henry Teale. The city hired him to fill in Vane’s grave.”
“I figured that.”
“I heard he took the job because he has an ancestor buried in the cemetery.”
Jillian sank against the back of her chair. “Now do you believe me?”
“I’ve got to go.” Sherre turned away. “No promises.”
* * * *
Camped out at her desk, Sherre shot a glance to the wall clock. Eleven fifteen at night. She should have left the precinct over two hours ago but had gotten sidetracked trying to chase down information on Jillian’s victims. She should have her head examined for even considering a hocus-pocus explanation but couldn’t ignore the nagging voice insisting Henry Teale had ancestors buried at Hickory Chapel. Normally, that wouldn’t have been enough to justify digging deeper, but the precinct janitor, Coleman, also had relatives buried there. A member of the Historical Society, he’d routinely lamented the poor condition of the graves to anyone who’d listen. Coleman had died the same day she and David Gregg investigated the theft of Vane’s bones. Could the janitor have been the first victim of Jillian’s curse?
Propping her elbow on the edge of her desk, Sherre rubbed her forehead. The coffee in the cup at her side had turned to sludge hours ago.
“Late night?” David shrugged from his jacket and dropped it over the back of his desk chair. “I thought your shift ended at nine?”
“It did.” She lobbed a glance over her computer screen, watching as he sorted through a stack of mail. Engrossed in research, she hadn’t heard him enter. “I got caught up chasing phantoms.”
He tossed the envelopes on his desk. “Mill Street?”
“No. I put that to rest for now.” She tamped down a wince. Mill Street was never truly at rest, but others immediately thought whenever she hunted information on her own dime, it had to be related to Boyd Hewitt’s murder. Fingerprints with no match in any database and bloody footprints with a common shoe size and tread. They should have been able to nail down something from the forensic evidence, but Mill Street re
mained a tragic blank. The only person who knew what happened in that home—the sole person who’d witnessed the atrocity and who could identify the killers—was locked inside her head and couldn’t talk.
Sherre stood. Time to cut and run. “I’ve had all the fun I can stand. At least you’ve got a quiet night.”
David tossed a glance around the empty squad room. “Where’s Desmond? I thought I was babysitting.”
“Don’t be so hard on the rookie. He’s down in records.” She plucked her jacket from the back of her chair. “I think the kid’s got a crush on the blond girl. The one who likes to go zip-lining.”
“Carrie.”
“That’s it.” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, speaking of kids, how’s Finn these days?” David often groused how hard it was raising a nearly teen boy, not to mention one who kept smart-assed company. Juggling the chaotic work schedule of a detective with an adolescent couldn’t be an easy task.
David shrugged. “Improving. He ditched Rodney and Troy. Finally made a decent friend.”
“Oh, yeah?” She pulled on the jacket and flipped up her collar.
“Elliot Camden.”
Sherre furrowed her brow. “Isn’t he the kid—”
“Who fell into the grave. Yeah. He and Finn have been buddy-buddy since coming across Henry Teale at Hickory Chapel.”
Sherre grimaced. “That’s an ugly bonding experience. I’m glad something positive came of it.”
“Me, too. Elliott’s in the school science club, so Finn stopped complaining about me signing him up for it. When I work late, Elliott’s mom has been letting Finn hang at her place. He’s sleeping over tomorrow night since it’s Friday.”
“That worked out well.”
“Couldn’t ask for better.” David crossed to the coffee pot. “It’s good for Finn to have a positive female role model in his life. He seems to like Tessa Camden and doesn’t think he’s being subjected to babysitting.” He mimed air quotes on the last word, then turned to examine the half-full carafe of Colombian on the burner.
