Dark Vigil

by Gary Piserchio

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Calico blinked at the glare of her basement’s fluorescent lights. Her body was nothing but pain. Blood still pumped from her wound. The dream must have happened in the space between heartbeats.

  Even so, it gave her hope. And with hope, she gained the strength to get to her knees. Cait Sidhe stood a few yards away. Calico crawled as her eyesight wavered; it seemed as though the room filled with fog. A thousand diesel engines revved in her head. Blood was a steady stream from her throat. But there was the rock at the feet of the large cat. Good kitty. Cait Sidhe’s tail twitched. Her gold eyes spurred Calico on.

  She lunged, grabbing the stone with her bare hand. The engines in her head diminished, and her eyesight seemed to clear slightly. Cait Sidhe faded away. Calico rolled onto her back, using her teeth to pull off the bloody work glove.

  The hand holding the rock shook violently. Calico’s other hand, covered in glistening blood, shook just as badly. She tried to press her index finger against the rock, but it was like trying to thread a needle during an earthquake. She resorted to clawing at and grabbing the hand that held the rock. Even like that, her hands juked and jived. She didn’t have much time. Her arms felt so weak as she held them aloft.

  She slid the outer hand around until the tip of her index finger rested on the rock’s surface. Carefully, the concentration helping to steady her hands, she drew the rune of release the priest had drawn on the heartwood box. The rock trembled of its own, separate from her own spastic death throes. It struggled against her grip and it was all she could do to hang on. Tendrils of startling bright purple emerge from the stone, cracking its smooth surface like an egg.

  The rock fractured and split open. The face of Cait Sidhe emerged, growing and snarling and leaping out like a purple wraith and then disappearing. Calico blinked. The purple light was gone, and she held nothing but a broken rock in her hands. Just a hallucination. The last desperate flurry of electricity firing through her dying brainpan.

  She let her arms drop to either side as she faded in and out of consciousness. Little puffs of thought wondered when she would finally die.

  After what seemed like hours, she moaned, “Die already!”

  She coughed, clearing her throat, and said louder, “Die already?”

  Her voice was clear. She blinked. The fog was gone, her eyesight sharp. She lifted her arms again and held both hands out. They were steady. The pain in her body was gone.

  Calico whispered, “No fucking way,” and lay still for several moments waiting for—she had no idea what she was waiting for. She felt her throat. It was covered in crusted blood, but she couldn’t find the wound.

  Wincing in anticipation, she slowly sat up, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt. Calico twisted from side to side. Her ribs felt fine. She pressed against the cheek Winston had broken.

  “Uh,” was all she could think to say as she stood up and bounced lightly on her toes.

  Cait Sidhe healed her. Saved her life.

  She turned to thank her savior, but the cat was gone. A chill of dread skittered through Calico. After saving First Sister, Cait Sidhe had been terribly weakened and would have faded away to nothing. The same thing must have happened when she saved Calico, but there had been no one to bind the cat into an object.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

  Cait Sidhe was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Elizabeth Williams, Lizzi to friends and family, stood across the street from the house. There were no cop cars on the street. The only car was down the block, and that was hers. Everyone out in the suburbs had nice big garages to hide their cars. Looking at the unassuming house decorated with police tape, chills ran through her body. The murders of the married couple had to be a prime incident. She could feel it.

  Oh, please, you always think you feel it.

  But this time’s different.

  You always say that, too.

  Lizzi sighed. It was true. Though the Winslow incident from two years ago could still turn out to be prime. And if not, well, there could—would—be a first time. And maybe this was it. Even here in the bland suburbs of Lakewood, Colorado.

  Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the street, went up to the front door, and rang the bell. She didn’t expect anyone to answer, especially as there was still unbroken yellow police tape around the porch. But, just in case, and especially if there were still cops inside, she was prepared, holding a stack of LDS pamphlets she’d taken from one of their churches.

  She waited a moment, bouncing slightly on her feet, trying to slow her heart rate and breathing. Knocking loudly, she waited some more.

  Lizzi rang and knocked two more times, standing on the porch for several minutes, wanting to be absolutely sure. Of course, if anyone was home and they were anything like her, they were standing on the other side of the door waiting for her to leave. But she couldn’t stand out there forever, so she tried the doorknob. Locked. She held onto it for a few moments to stop her hand from shaking. Fear and excitement surged and rippled through her.

  Courage is not being fearless; it’s doing the damned thing even if you’re terrified.

  She grimaced and said, “Whatever,” and looked up and down the street. No neighbors in sight. Though it felt like all of them were peering out their windows wondering what the black girl was doing at the Meagher’s house. Lizzi was five-eight without the six inches of carefully disarrayed afro. She wasn’t skinny or fat, a comfortable in-between, and for the occasion, wore jeans, a tan untucked button-down shirt, and gold-striped Adidas Superstars. Some of the neighbors were already reaching for their phones to call 911 simply because of her skin. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Get your ass moving.

  Okay, okay. She ducked under the police tape at the edge of the front porch and tried to peek past the drapes in the large front window, but there were no gaps. She continued to the backyard gate.

  A tall cedar privacy fence wrapped around the yard. She rattled the black iron handle as she pulled open the gate, which squeaked and wobbled. Moving inside, she pulled it closed with more force than she intended, startling her as the gate and fence shuddered. But she felt a lot better inside the fence, though neighbors on the second floor of their homes could still look down and see her.

  Lizzi hurried to the cover of the porch and its wood-framed awning. There was a table, white plastic chairs, and a covered gas grill. She stepped up to a sliding glass door and saw a normal-looking kitchen that had been thoroughly trashed. Pots and pans and even shards of plates and bowls were scattered across the gray linoleum floor. Had the cops done that?

  Don’t be stupid.

  She jiggled the handle, but it was locked. She set the stack of pamphlets onto the table so she could jerk hard against the door with both hands, but it didn’t budge. As she pondered her next move a breeze grabbed the pamphlets and flung them across the yard. She started after them.

  What are you doing?

  Yeah, there was no point in picking them up. She stopped at the side of the concrete patio, which was lined with large rocks. Lizzi bent and hefted one, turning toward the sliding glass door.

  Don’t be an idiot.

  Hitching an eyebrow, her gaze fell on a window to the left of the door. That wouldn’t make quite as much noise and it wouldn’t send six-foot tall shards of glass cascading down and slicing off her leg. She went to the window and cupped a hand, holding the rock in the other. Just inside was the kitchen sink.

  Are you sure about this?

  Before she could change her mind, she stepped back and tossed the rock. Flinching away, glass crashed and the rock thudded and danced in the sink. She looked for neighbors flocking to the fence to see what had happened.

  A dog barked somewhere, and a car passed by on the street. But no fast-approaching sound of sirens. No black ops helicopters swooping in.

  Why would there be helicopters?

  “Shut up,” she said.

 
She pulled the faux-leather cover off the grill and grabbed another rock. Lizzi used the rock to scrape away the jagged edges of glass around the window frame. Next, she lay the grill cover over the edge and grabbed one of the white chairs, stepping up onto the wobbly plastic.

  Lizzi ducked inside the window and rested her stomach against the edge, then started wiggling through the opening and kicking her legs like she was swimming. She grabbed the far edge of the large kitchen sink and pulled until her thighs rested on the window frame.

  You know this is when the cops are going to show up, right?

  “Without a doubt,” she muttered.

  Lizzi pulled herself sideways far enough to ease one then the other leg through the window. Being incredible coordinated, she slipped and rolled off the counter.

  “Mary Queen of Scots!”

  She twisted and somehow landed on her feet, sending an omelet pan skittering across the floor. Standing, Lizzi lifted her arms in a Y to complete the dismount.

  Klutz.

  Shut up, I’m as graceful as a friggin’ swan.

  She went to the sliding glass door and looked out. No sign of neighbors or S.W.A.T. teams. Turning back, she picked a direction and ended up in the dining room.

  The table and chairs were dusty, and she realized the cops had looked for prints. There was a china cabinet on the other side, doors open and interior empty because all of it was on the carpet. She took pictures with her iPhone, then moved into the living room and gasped at the dried blood.

  “Oh, mother may I.” Her breathing turned shallow and fast.

  She took pictures of the front room, the blood on the overturned couch and wall, stared for a second at one piece of carry-on luggage by the couch, then moved to the stairs. There were bloody footprints from dress shoes. She felt a little dizzy heading up the stairs and grabbed the banister. Didn’t need to tumble and break her neck. At the top, she turned with the footprints. The door at the end of the hallway slowly opened. She froze and a whine escaped her lips.

  The door was already open, idiot.

  “Are you sure?”

  Pretty sure.

  “Oh, Mylanta,” she whispered, shaking.

  Lizzi gave a little unintended grunt as she took her first step toward the doorway. She was alone in the house. Nothing to be afraid of, other than seeing all the blood that must be in that room if the murderer could track it all the way down the stairs. However, the bodies would be gone.

  But if this was a prime incident—it was!—then who knew what she might find. Maybe their spirits were still in the room. Maybe whatever monster killed them had left some psychic residue behind.

  Lizzi didn’t stop, but she wasn’t moving fast. Each step slow and deliberate. Should she have brought a weapon? A little late to be thinking about that. And what good would that do against something that could cause a prime incident? Maybe it would be best if this were just another common murder, not that murder was ever common.

  Are you kidding? Isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for?

  Lizzi wasn’t so sure as she stared at a bloody handprint on the door. A calling card from the monster.

  “Oh, sweet molasses.”

  Her breath came faster. She put a hand against the wall to steady herself, but she ended up sitting down hard instead, something going pop in her back with a flare of pain. Lightheaded, her breathing galloped out of control. Somewhere in the house a tea kettle whistled at weird intervals.

  That’s you, moron.

  Oh. She slowly fell onto her back and stared at the popcorn ceiling, which changed colors on her, turning from off-white, to gray, to blue-black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Calico’s relief at being alive and healed was short-lived. Her parents and sister were gone. Her life would never be the fucking same. Bitter emotional pain was her only companion now that Cait Sidhe was also gone.

  She went upstairs and looked through her liquor cabinet. Drinking sounded really, really good at the moment.

  She settled on Manhattans. She wasn’t a bourbon fan, but she was out of anything else she really liked. And in the fridge were Maraschino cherries that she used for ice cream, and someone brought vermouth and bitters to one of her parties. She hoped that would make the bourbon less harsh. She used ice in a shaker to put it together and then poured it into one of her water glasses along with a couple sloppy spoonfuls of cherries. She sipped it, made the doesn’t-completely-suck face, and went back downstairs.

  What the hell was she going to do with Winston? She had to study up on how to kill him so the asshole couldn’t come back. She was pretty sure tearing his head off would do the trick, but she had to be sure. Fuck. That meant going back to Mom and Dad’s for the books. She wasn’t ready for that yet.

  Sipping her drink, she thought about Lorcán. It was daylight, but come night, wouldn’t he come looking for Winston? Fuck. She had to get rid of Winston and get a hotel room to hide from Lorcán. What day was it? Tuesday? Wednesday? She wasn’t at all sure. There was no way she was going to work tomorrow. Her boss was pretty cool and would certainly understand after what happened to her parents.

  Ah, geez. The funeral. She had to figure that out. And what to do about their house. And the family chronicles. And Winston. And Lorcán. Overwhelmed, she gulped down the rest of the bourbon and went upstairs to fix another, munching on the cherries as her mind reeled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  With a snort, Lizzi Williams opened her eyes. Where was she? She flailed her arms and legs in an attempt to sit up, but a spasm racked her body, emanating from her back.

  “Mother of Pearl Bailey!” She turned sideways and put a hand to her back, like that would help.

  There were bloody footprints on the carpet inches from her nose. The pain vanished as horror clamped down on her brain. Get up. Now! She rolled onto her hands and knees, not realizing for a moment that one of her hands was firmly planted in a bloody footprint. It was dry and crusty.

  Don’t freak out. She lifted her hand and deliberately set it down next to the footprint before pushing herself up. She faced away from the bedroom, so all she saw were the bloody footprints disappearing down the stairs.

  Turn around.

  And she did. There was the open door with the handprint dried to a maroon color. Take a step. Good girl. Another. One more. Then she saw the far wall covered in blood. So much blood. Her stomach spasmed, but she kept from throwing up.

  Do your job.

  Nodding, she raised her hands, as though they held her iPhone. They didn’t. Where was it? Turning, she found it on the floor of the hall. As she bent, her back spasmed again and she fell to a knee.

  She’d messed up her back pretty good. Wincing, she picked up the phone and stood. The pain wasn’t so bad when she stood straight. Her hands shook as she took pictures of the massacre.

  The bodies were gone, of course. So was the bed covering, which she found odd. Taken and tagged for evidence? The king-sized mattress was still there, soaked in blood. What maybe freaked her out more than all that blood was that the two separate dressers had their drawers completely removed and the contents strewn about the room. The closet door to a large walk-in was open, with everything upended. Searching for something or sending a message? She took more pictures but didn’t know if any of them would come out because of the shaking.

  Her breathing was a little better. She wasn’t so lightheaded. There was a bathroom door along the wall opposite the bed. She moved sluggishly toward it, afraid of finding something even more horrific and twisted, like a bathtub full of blood.

  The bathroom had been searched as well. The drawers had bloody handprints, the contents scattered, and the floor had bloody footprints. Who does this kind of thing?

  A monster.

  Now you’re just patronizing me.

  All kinds of people are monsters.

  Lizzi left the bedroom, following the footsteps down the hall. But something nagged at her. Something she’d seen. What was it? It’d been
out here in the hall. On the floor? She scoured the area. No, it hadn’t been on the floor, she’d been on the floor. Her eyes moved up to the ceiling.

  The trapdoor to the attic was slightly ajar. Crap. In all the horror movies that’s where the monster hid.

  So it walked out of the house, doubled-back, and hid in the attic?

  Trembling, she shrugged. Maybe. There was no cord hanging from the door. She’d need a step ladder.

  Wait, you think there’s a monster up there and you’re going to take a look?

  Yep. If she didn’t faint or die from terror. Maybe the killer hid the murder weapon up there. But there wasn’t any blood on the trapdoor or the ceiling. Maybe the couple simply put something away and hadn’t closed it properly or the cops had taken a look. No killer lurking in the dark attic with a bloody machete.

  Lizzi went down the hall. There were two rooms along with a bathroom and linen closet, all completely torn apart. Despite the chaos, she found a step ladder in one of the rooms.

  Bingo.

  It was an aluminum ladder with five steps. Before she could chicken out, she opened it under the attic and stomped up it. Pushing on the trapdoor, it turned out to be a panel. She slid it to the side as far as it would go, which wasn’t very far, and stepped up to the top of the ladder. No machete swung out of the dark to behead her. She turned on the flashlight on her phone and looked around.

  It was full of pink insulation. It wasn’t even a storage space for Christmas decorations. The cotton-candy fiberglass made a three-foot high wall around the opening. No blood, no weapon, and no monster.