Legends of the Lurker Box Set

by Richard H. Stephens

  Shivers shot up her spine. The stained-glass door of Grimelda’s Clutch squealed open and Reecah locked eyes with the witch. She gulped, incapable of breaking contact.

  “There you are, child. Grimelda is expecting you.”

  Reecah didn’t know what creeped her out more. The fact that the witch had expected her or the way Grimelda referred to herself in the third person.

  The witch leaned on her gnarly stick and raised a shaky hand, a withered finger motioning for Reecah to join her. “Grimelda and Reecah have much to discuss now that Lizzy has gone to the faeries.”

  Reecah’s blood chilled. Nobody knew of Grammy’s passing. Her mind screamed for her to run away, but her feet started toward the garish building.

  Grimelda’s crooked grin met her as she held the bottom half of the door open.

  Stepping inside, Reecah cringed as the door squealed shut.

  The crone swung the upper half shut. Several locking mechanisms clicked with a wave of her hand.

  “Don’t be alarmed, my child. Grimmy won’t hurt you,” Grimelda cackled and hobbled past Reecah, disappearing behind the counter.

  Grimmy? The similarity to her pet name for Grammy unnerved her. As if feeding off her discomfort, the raven cawed from its usual resting place, imitating Grimelda’s disquieting laugh.

  Reecah considered the stained-glass door and searched the perimeter of the shop for another way out. Other than the plaid curtain draped over the hole in the wall behind the counter, there didn’t appear to be one.

  “Come hither, dear child. Join Grimelda in the cellar.”

  Reecah stared wide-eyed. There was no way she was going beyond that doorway.

  The raven emitted a high-pitched caw. “In the cellar! In the cellar!”

  Reecah shook her head. This couldn’t be happening. She must still be asleep.

  “No need to fear Lizzy’s sister, child. Grimelda is the only family you have left.”

  The raven’s head bobbed. “Only family! Only family!”

  Reecah grabbed onto a display shelf to keep her legs from buckling. She must’ve heard that wrong. That made Grimelda her great-aunt.

  “Aye, dearie. There is much you need to learn now that grandma is gone, eh?” Grimelda disappeared behind the curtain.

  Reecah’s eyes darted everywhere at once, her throat dry and her tunic soaked with perspiration. She turned to the door, attempting to unlatch the highest lock but it wouldn’t budge.

  Grimelda’s voice reached her from beyond the curtain. “Hee hee, child. You’re not versed in magic. Those locks won’t move without Grimelda’s command.”

  Reecah spun around. The witch was nowhere in sight. She contemplated the stained-glass door in a panic and unsheathed Poppa’s heavy sword. Even after running with it in her hands for countless days on end, swinging the brute of a weapon was an entirely different matter. She had hewn several stumps into chip wood over the last few years, but the blade’s weight still gave her difficulty.

  “I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” Grimelda called out.

  The raven tilted its head sideways and blinked. “If I were you! If I were you!”

  How did the witch know what she contemplated? Her mind made up, Reecah didn’t hesitate. Holding the sword with two hands she brought the weapon crashing down from over her shoulder. The last thing she felt as the blade impacted the colourful, glass barrier was the explosion lifting her from her feet and throwing her into a display shelf. The tall stand buckled around her, dropping the shelves and their contents on top of her.

  In the Cellar

  Reecah screamed as the old crone leaned in close, her breath rank. She remembered trying to escape Grimelda’s mystical shop and then a bright light and then…

  She found herself lying on her back atop a black marble slab in the middle of a small, candlelit cavern—its vaulted ceiling spiked with rock formations. She tried to push away from the vile woman but Grimelda’s stick-like hands pinned her to the stone.

  “What are you doing?” Reecah asked, frantically looking around and wondering why her ear lobes hurt. She forced an arm between herself and the witch and touched her right ear, shocked to feel a hard stone embedded there. She pulled her hand back—her fingertips red with blood. She checked her other ear and felt another hard stone.

  Her frightened gaze met Grimelda’s. “What have you done to me?”

  Grimelda’s expression made her shiver.

  “Relax child. Grimelda has done what Lizzy neglected.”

  Reecah frowned but didn’t want to waste time finding out what the crazy crone meant. She needed to get off the table and escape.

  A fount on a matching marble stand stood near her head—perched on the edge of a blood-letting trough surrounding the base of the table.

  She swallowed hard. Though not versed in the ways of the occult, Poppa had taught her to read at an early age. She had taken great joy in reading the tomes Poppa kept locked in an old trunk by his and Grammy’s pallet. If she wasn’t mistaken, she lay upon a sacrificial altar.

  Using every bit of strength she had, Reecah bucked her hips and arched her back, driving her shoulder blades and head against the table to escape Grimelda’s grasp.

  She landed on the floor with bare feet but Grimelda’s iron grip maintained control of her wrists.

  “Easy child, you’re going to ruin everything.”

  “Get your hands off me, you crazy witch!” Reecah shrieked, jerking her arms free and stepping backward. She bumped into a wooden table covered in crimson cloth. On top of the cloth, sat an array of knives. Some for slicing, some for chopping, one with a serrated edge for sawing, and another with a hooked tip—just like the one Grammy used to skin animals. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Grimelda’s cellar.” Grimelda wiped her blood-stained fingers on her apron.

  The witch’s cellar? It looked like a cave devoted to demonic rituals. She swallowed a lump of fear and put the knife table between them, her eyes wildly darting about, searching for her boots and Poppa’s weapons. She reached up with both hands, rolling the stones in her earlobes between her thumb and forefinger. “What have you put in my ears?”

  “I have adorned you with your bloodstones.”

  “My what?” Her hands were wet and sticky with fresh blood. “Take them out!”

  Grimelda shook her head. “That I cannot do. Once the ritual has been performed it would be too dangerous to remove them.”

  “Ritual? What did you do?”

  “Something Lizzy should have had me do years ago if you wish to become a Windwalker.”

  “You’re mad! Leave me alone!” Reecah glanced at the stairs.

  “Calm yourself, poppet.”

  Poppa’s endearment snapped Reecah’s open-mouthed attention back to the witch.

  “Yes, child. Vili’s name for you.”

  “You know that because you’re a witch.”

  “Grimelda has been called many things.” Grimelda pursed her thin lips, her tone softening. “The people of Fishmonger Bay labelled me as such. At one time I might have been hurt by the name, but the villagers leave me alone so I live with it.”

  Reecah noted the witch had started referring to herself in the first person. Her eyes flicked between the woman and various pieces of ornate furniture lining the walls. Pieces that looked as if they belonged in a palace, according to the sketches in Poppa’s tomes.

  A sudden burst of flapping wings appeared from the curved doorway marking the flight of stone carved stairs climbing into darkness. The raven landed on the near rim of the fount and turned its head sideways, blinking at her.

  “Vili spoke fondly of his little poppet whenever he visited.”

  Reecah’s temper rose. “You’re a liar.”

  “You’re a liar! You’re a liar!”

  Grimelda gave the bird a dirty look. “My sister called you her flower bud. You called her Grammy.”

  The pain was too much. Reecah’s eyes misted up. “How do you know all this? Gra
mmy doesn’t have a sister.”

  Grimelda stepped toward her but stopped when Reecah’s eyes honed in on the knives before her.

  “Lizzy was afraid of what I represent.”

  “A witch?”

  “A witch! A witch!”

  “Yes, child, if that helps you understand.”

  “Understand what? That if I hadn’t woken up when I did, you were about to send my spirit to your sick gods?”

  “Sick gods! Sick gods!”

  Grimelda didn’t deny it. Instead she picked up a carving knife and threw it at the raven.

  The bird rose in a flurry of feathers and winged its way back up the stairway.

  Grimelda shook her head. “Such a pest, that one. I should turn him into a toad.”

  Reecah’s eyes grew wider.

  “Witch humour. I can’t actually do that.”

  Reecah wasn’t so sure. Everything she had heard about Grimelda from the village children as a youngster attested to the fact that the witch was capable of performing many dastardly tricks.

  “Why did you put me on that…that sacrificial altar? Where’s my stuff?”

  “Your stuff?” Grimelda scratched her head. “Oh, your boots and weapons. I left them in the shop.”

  Reecah tried to casually step toward the doorway. “Why?”

  “Look at me? You may not consider yourself heavy, but it was all I could do to drag you down here without the extra weight.”

  “Even my boots?”

  “Well no, but—”

  “But nothing.” Reecah took another big step. “What else were you planning on doing to me?” Her eyes went to the knives again.

  “You were hurt. I healed you.”

  Reecah flexed her muscles and surveyed her outstretched arms. “That’s strange. I feel alright.”

  “Of course you do. I healed you after you tried to break my door.”

  Reecah swallowed. She backed farther away, not believing a word the old crone said.

  Grimelda followed with her eyes. “If you insist on leaving, I won’t stop you, but…” She let the word hang between them.

  Reecah stopped and waited for it.

  “You may never know if our family gift has passed down to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Whether you believe me or not, my child, once I’m gone, you’ll be the last in a line of magic that has been in this world for as long as the sun has risen. You’re the only one who can prevent our legacy from disappearing from the world.”

  Reecah adjusted her stance, jutting her hips to one side and leaning her head toward Grimelda. “Huh?”

  Grimelda nodded. “It is as I feared. Lizzy never told you, did she?”

  Grammy’s death had been hard on her. Reecah had been too heartbroken to remember everything Grammy had told her. Grimelda’s words triggered the painful memory.

  Your great-grandmother possessed the gift.

  The implication slammed into her. She hadn’t thought of it as anything more than a dying, old lady’s rambling.

  Grimelda nodded, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

  It skipped me, but your great-aunt was touched by it. I’ve been watching for it in you, afraid to see it foster. By keeping you secluded all these years, I have done you a disservice.

  Reecah didn’t care that her jaw dropped in disbelief. She stood in a witch’s cave staring at Grammy’s sister! Accepting Grimelda’s words, she noticed the startling resemblance between the sisters—Grimelda was much older in appearance but there could be no mistake—the witch of Fishmonger Bay was Reecah’s only living relative.

  The truth left her speechless. Part of her wanted to scream, but deep down, an ingrained desire to know festered. Even so, she teetered on the verge of extricating herself from the witch’s cellar. Grimelda’s next words held her spellbound.

  “You are a dreamer, Reecah Draakvriend. Vili instilled that in you. Lizzy fought against it, but if I’m not mistaken, in the end, she came to understand. Am I right? Did she give you a special item before leaving our world?”

  Reecah reached into the secret pocket inside her cloak, half expecting the witch to have stolen it from her, but her fingers wrapped around the smooth binding of her diary. For some reason she felt compelled to pull it out and hold it out for Grimelda to see.

  “Turn it over.”

  Reecah hesitated but did as she was asked. The candlelight reflected off the facets of the crimson gemstone.

  Grimelda’s awe-filled tone wasn’t lost on Reecah. “It worked. I wanted that book ever since the day your great-grandmother died, but for some reason it was given to Lizzy. And the stone! I can hardly believe my eyes. Your grandmother knew the truth all along. Why that little…” Grimelda’s voice trailed off.

  Tears dampened the wrinkles on her great-aunt’s face.

  As bizarre as it seemed, Reecah had a compelling desire to comfort the old woman. Hoping she wouldn’t regret it, she put her strong arms around the old crone, hugging her head into her bosom. She couldn’t imagine how lonely the old woman had been all these years, loathed by the villagers and shunned by her family.

  Grimelda wept softly, her skeleton arms returning Reecah’s embrace. Separating herself, she stared at the ground. “I’m sorry, my child. Forgive a foolish old maid. I forget my place.”

  Reecah grasped Grimelda’s blue-veined hands. “There’s nothing to forgive…great-aunt.”

  Grimelda looked into Reecah’s hazel eyes, a glimmer of hope in her bloodshot stare. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks as a genuine smile illuminated her haggard face. “You truly are the godsend Vili spoke of.”

  Reecah’s skin flushed with goosebumps. Whether due to Grimelda’s words or because of the chill in the cellar and the cold from the floor entering her body through her bare feet, she didn’t know. She released her hands and started for the doorway. “Come on, we need to get you somewhere warm. There’s nothing to you.”

  Grimelda nodded and preceded Reecah up the long, twisting flight of stairs; leaning on her knobby stick to help lift her body.

  The steps emptied into a large storeroom burrowed into the mountainside—at its far end hung the plaid curtain.

  The welcome heat of the shop drove Reecah’s chill away. Grimelda’s Clutch flickered under the light of several candelabras hanging from the ceiling—through the stained-glass door she realized it was nighttime. Casually surveying the store, the crusty raven had returned to its usual perch. Piled beneath it were her weapons and her boots.

  While Grimelda pulled a small table and two short stools around the counter, Reecah retrieved her boots and pulled them on, her eyes following Grimelda’s movements. The crone pulled out the octagonal brass bowl covered in runes—the one she had tried to show Reecah years ago—and placed it on the table.

  Reecah thought for sure the rickety stand would collapse. “What’s it do?”

  If Grimelda heard her, and Reecah was sure she had, she never let on. The witch disappeared behind the curtain before returning with what appeared to be the same flask she had used before.

  Grimelda emptied the flask into the brass bowl, adjusted its position until she was satisfied, and dipped a yellowed fingernail into the liquid—just enough to break its surface.

  A line of ripples surged toward the middle of the bowl, narrowed into the point of a triangle at its centre and disappeared. Grimelda nodded. “It’s ready.”

  “What’s it do?” Reecah repeated.

  “Sit here, child.” Grimelda indicated the stool on the opposite side from where she had dipped her fingernail.

  Reecah lowered herself onto the stool, her knees sticking up by her elbows.

  Grimelda sat on the other stool, her stooped body making it the proper height. “This, my child, is a magical fount. With it, someone proficient in the gift can do many things.”

  Reecah had no clue what that meant. “The large runes on the side are directional, are they not? I’m sitting in front of the south rune.”<
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  Grimelda nodded. “Yes, dearie. I’m impressed.”

  Reecah blushed. “Poppa taught me.”

  “Hmm, he did, did he?” She nodded some more. “Vili was a special man. I’m impressed he taught you runology. It’s a dying language. Did he teach you the common language as well?”

  “He made me read to him at bedtime when I was three or four. He kept at me until I didn’t need his help with the bigger words.”

  “Excellent. That saves us a lot of time.”

  “A lot of time? For what?”

  “Tsk, tsk. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. First, we must discover whether you possess the family legacy. Have you ever experienced a time when you have, um, done something you shouldn’t be able to?”

  Reecah’s brows knit together. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like lighting a candle without touching a flame to its wick, or foreseeing something before it actually happens. You know? Stuff like that.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Hmm.”

  Her answer appeared to unsettle Grimelda.

  Grimelda dipped her pointer fingernail in the bowl and swirled the viscous liquid, deep in thought; her yellowed eyes on Reecah. Without a word, she got to her feet and plucked a couple of strands of Reecah’s hair.

  Reecah winced, about to protest, but kept quiet.

  Grimelda eyed the strands. Picking the longest one, she placed it in the bowl’s centre.

  Instead of falling limp on the liquid’s surface, the hair straightened into a rigid follicle, slowly absorbing into the bowl with a soft hiss—the surface around the hair smoking.

  Reecah leaned forward, studying the strange phenomenon.

  “Curious,” Grimelda muttered. “I’ve never seen that before.”

  “Seen what?”

  Her features twisted in thought, Grimelda rose and shuffled behind the counter and rummaged in the shelves on the wall. Not finding what she wanted, she slipped through the curtain.

  Reecah waited patiently, listening to the sound of jars clinking and objects being relocated. “Can I help?”

  “Can I help? Can I help?”

  Reecah stared at the raven. It returned her gaze, turning its head from side to side. Without warning it squawked and took flight, banging into the stained-glass door and falling to the ground. It righted itself and flapped at the door, cawing incessantly.