Weirdbook 32

by Douglas Draa

  She imparted the stone’s mandates, her voice congested, on the verge of sobs. “Too long have you neglected to care for this planet. You selfishly disdained the warnings of the Elements. We rocks cannot bear the Earth’s pain, cannot abide her throes nor tolerate her suffering. In punishment for your actions, and inactions, all families will sacrifice their youngest child. Those without offspring will sacrifice one of their smallest fingers. As proof of your allegiance, and evidence of my passage, the city must be renamed to an appropriate title honoring our kind. Let it be a reminder, you are not above natural laws and order.”

  The mob was struck speechless, mouths round, features gawping in sheer astonishment. Then outrage poured through veins. A collective spirit assembled, swelling in their midst.

  “What about you?” a man called.

  The librarian slouched on display, a statue of jelly, a wretched cemetery angel worn smooth.

  “What will you lose?” yelled a female.

  “Whose side are you on?” someone else grilled.

  She could only peer at them, her visage blank. She had no side.

  An argument developed whether it was Zelda or the rock. Each theory required a stretch of the imagination. For one, she was an instrument or accomplice of the boulder. For the opposite, she could manipulate the stone with magic or mind.

  Zelda stood there, between a rock and a hard place, a solitary figure, brooding, detached, while they discussed her like she was absent. She had been taught it was rude, but she was often treated that way. A number. A name on a list. People would decide things for her. About her.

  The majority determined she had to be wielding the stone. It seemed a tad more plausible. At which a debate ensued over Zelda being a sorceress or a psychic.

  “I swear that I am neither,” the young woman asserted. “If any of you are interested.” Shaking her head at the silence and obstinance. “I didn’t think so.”

  “What should we do? The mayor’s dead. The sheriff too.”

  “Because of that conjurer.”

  “It’s her doing.”

  “She’s to blame.”

  “Whatever she is, we’re not safe while she’s here.”

  The horde agitated to a lather. Raucous bellows churned a virulent frightful atmosphere into a frenzy. Zelda viewed the tempest, eyes damp, her mouth and chin crumpled.

  “Sacrifice our kids? Cut off our fingers?”

  “She’s a witch. Let’s burn her!”

  “Kill the hag before she casts a spell!”

  “She has to be stopped!”

  “She wants our firstborn!”

  “We need to defend the town.”

  “Quick or she’ll enchant the rock!”

  “The witch must die!”

  A boy snatched rubble from the ground and tossed it at Zelda. The piece of brick tumbled harmless, short of the target. His mom stooped for a cobblestone. A wealth of debris littered the old town square. Mayor Grumwald frequently vowed to refurbish the spot, repave its floor and rebuild a ruined fountain. It was one of his various unkept promises. The child’s mother hurled her stone and hit the mark.

  Miss Twillamung squealed. Blood seeped through fingers that covered a gash on her forehead. Her voice was hoarse. “Don’t do this. You are individuals, not this anger. You are not a gang! You are special. Do not forget who you are, who you can be. Think for yourselves. Feel what is in your hearts. Do not be lost in the crowd.”

  A hail of stones and brick pelted her as rabble-rousers and followers alike condemned the librarian to death. It would be the last public execution of a witch in centuries, at least in the Western World. Dying, Zelda crawled a brief distance to one side then succumbed.

  A large marble careened, mashing a swath of mayhem, blazing its trail on a screaming populace.

  The rock departed, and the square was promptly renovated by survivors, a monument to the fallen. Bronze replicas of the mayor and the new librarian were erected, greeting visitors beside a wishing fountain.

  The name of the town would be changed to protect the innocent…something similar to Boulder, Little Rock, Stone City, Rock Springs, Rockford, Rockville, Stone Mountain, Rockwell, Rockingham, Rockdale, Stone Lake, Rockport, Castle Rock, Chimney Rock, Stone Town …

  You get the idea.

  How many towns were there? Plenty. But there were even more rocks.

  ▲

  THE NECRO-CONJURING SORCERESS, by Ashley Dioses

  The necro-conjurer, a sorceress of zeal,

  Could feel the chill of night that crept throughout her lair.

  So intricate her make, as cold as hard steel,

  That even the cadaver, well preserved with care,

  Was not more icy than her sinister embrace.

  Her silken skin delivered forth the final touch

  To his last memories that soon she must erase.

  With kisses, he again was in her deadly clutch;

  She killed her lover out of great and envious rage.

  His cloudy eyes wide opened, first beholding her.

  Her scent, desirable, intoxicating sage,

  Awoke a distant vision—it was but a blur.

  With runic ritual, and ancient spoken spell,

  She overtook his body and his weakened mind.

  With hunger now for humans, he was bound for Hell,

  And a new target came, to rip and have confined.

  The jealous Sorceress had found his love untrue,

  For he was found to have a mistress of wyrding-skilled.

  The mistress proved too hard to easily subdue,

  So uttered she a spell with so cruel and darkly willed.

  She turned to face her shameful love who begged and knelt,

  But she could feel no pity for dishonored trust.

  To kill him was a simple justice to be dealt;

  He knew his end would come by unrestrainèd lust.

  With magick-powered strength, she dragged his cold remains

  Into her lonely tower in the haunted wood.

  Preserved and prepped to soon arise upon this plane,

  He would perforce obey her, and he understood.

  The Sorceress caressed his pallid chest with sharp

  And blackened fingertips one final time ere she

  Became ensanguined, plucking tendons like a harp.

  She stilled his heart to silence for all time his plea.

  Malicious feelings set his dull, dim mind aflame,

  Not only for the taste of luscious human flesh,

  But to appease the Sorceress in her vile game,

  And feel the life drain out of someone still so fresh.

  His mistress was the single craving that he sought

  With such a teasing image pictured in his head—

  He wanted nothing but to watch her slowly rot,

  Then feast upon her entrails till her corpse lay dead.

  The Sorceress just stood and watched her precious pet,

  Just like the proudest mother watches children grow.

  He rose frustrate by stiffness, but he shuffling set

  Toward his pulsing prey through the harsh wind and snow.

  He left her high witch-tower and she closed her eyes

  Awaiting the most savage of unearthly cues;

  The silence shattered at the mistress’ last cries;

  The Sorceress grinned widely, knowing she was through.

  THE CHILDREN MUST BE HUNGRY, by L.F. Falconer

  The children must be hungry. Every morning, the thought seeded Maggie’s mind, urging her into wakefulness. In the late morning sunlight, the white walls of her bedroom were speckled with dancing shadows. Several flies floated in the water of the glass upon the bedside table, the water within appearing brown from the reflection of the empty prescr
iption bottle beside it. The day’s heat had already begun to settle in, adding weight to the stagnant air.

  Maggie forced her legs to move, easing them over the edge of the bed. Weary arms pushed her body upwards in a sluggish crawl and the bedsprings groaned along with her bones. How she longed to remain in bed, her body craving rest. The task of rising proved to be more daunting than the morning prior, yet Maggie forced herself to rise. For the sake of the children.

  Her children. Too young to care for themselves, they needed her. So no matter how much her body resisted, every morning, Maggie arose.

  * * * *

  Rhonda Hawthorne lounged upon the plush sofa, sipping a mocha latte as she watched her favorite talk show host spout her scripted opinions upon the new 60 inch flat screen TV. The gentle purr of the air conditioner caused her to up the volume a bit. The doorbell rang and she turned and glared at the foyer. Who would be so rude as to stop by without calling first? With a disgusted sigh, she set the remote and her cup aside and pushed her small frame off the sofa. Slippered feet padded across the Berber carpet in a whisper and on tiptoe, she squinted through the front door peephole. No one was in sight. Taking her gaze downward, her lip curled into a scowl.

  It was that Kendall brat again. She would’ve preferred a Jehovah’s Witness, then she wouldn’t feel guilty for ignoring it.

  After losing her inner debate on whether to answer the door, she eased it open just enough to stare down at the elfin-eyed eight-year-old girl in desperate need of some grooming. Her dirty blonde hair was in tangles and Rhonda hoped it was a smear of dried gravy that was stuck to her left cheek.

  Rosy was polite as ever. “Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne. I’m sorry to bother you again, but my momma wants to know if she can borrow a little cooking oil. We ran out.”

  Rhonda’s eyeballs glanced upward for a moment. “She’s still sick, huh?”

  Rosy nodded. “She can’t make it to the store yet.”

  “Sure, kid. Wait here a sec.” Rhonda closed the door and retrieved a half-filled bottle of olive oil from the kitchen cupboard. Was the woman really too sick, or just too broke, or too lazy? Returning to the door, she opened it wide, the cool indoor air wafting out. “Here you go. Hope your momma gets better soon.” So she can quit begging from me.

  “Thank you Mrs. Hawthorne.” Rosy turned and hurried down the flagstone walkway that curved through the manicured lawn. Rhonda stood at the threshold and watched the child, clad in a grubby red tee shirt and once-white shorts, disappear behind the tall hedge that blocked the neighboring house from view.

  Just my luck, to be stuck living beside a single mom who can’t keep up with things. Little Rosy might be kind of cute if she took a shower and put on some clean clothes.

  Rhonda returned to the overstuffed sofa, her attention drawn back to the television, though now it was simply noise in the background. It’d been close to a week that Rosy had been coming by, begging something or other for Maggie. Could the woman truly be that sick? Anything was possible. What a rat that Matt Kendall had been to up and leave her like that, with no job and four small brats to feed.

  Brats. One of Paul’s words. “I hate it when I use that expression.” Rhonda snatched up her empty coffee cup and strode to the kitchen. Would she ever understand her husband’s dislike of children? It might have been nice to have been a mom. But a cruel twist of fate had forced her to have a hysterectomy at age twenty-three. Too young to be left barren. She’d had no choice but to accept it, and then she’d married a man who had no desire to ever push her into motherhood, so that door was closed and padlocked.

  She washed the empty cup and returned it to the cupboard. She had to admit, she was somewhat grateful. Motherhood was a never-ending job, and it would be all too easy to end up in the same predicament as Maggie Kendall.

  Rhonda sank back into the cushions of the sofa. One television talk show eased into another as the cool air conditioned breeze tousled a few loose dark hairs over her shoulder. The topic of this current show was “Easy Make-overs for the Everyday Woman.” Rhonda smiled. Maggie could use a make-over. The woman had probably been fairly pretty at one time. Now she was life-worn from housework and kids. Big and robust, she was always full of smiles for her children, but she could certainly benefit from the use of some make-up and an updated hairstyle. A little weight-loss and some fashionable clothes and she might be able to find a new husband. Then she’d have someone else to help her out and she could quit sending her kid around to beg from the neighbors.

  A moment of epiphany caused Rhonda to shoot to her feet. “Can’t force her into a make-over or find her a husband.” She quickly exchanged her slippers for shoes and grabbed her purse. “But I might be able to cut down on the begging.”

  * * * *

  At the grocery store, she filled the shopping cart with staples of flour, eggs, oil, butter, and bread. She topped that off with what she assumed were a few child-friendly foods: chicken bites, Spaghetti-O’s, hot dogs, peanut butter, and macaroni and cheese, then supplemented that with some healthier choices of soups, vegetables, fruits, and milk.

  On the drive home she nearly glowed and when she finally pulled the Lexus to the curb in front of Maggie’s house, she gave herself a hefty mental pat on the back. After all, if the woman was as sick as Rosy claimed, this was the neighborly thing to do, right? If Maggie couldn’t get to the store—the store could come to Maggie.

  With her hands full of grocery bags, Rhonda strode up the walk that cut through a crisp, thirsty lawn littered with broken bike parts, an overturned red wagon, a few weathered cardboard boxes, and miscellaneous doll parts. A sour odor laced the air and Rhonda crinkled her nose.

  “What a mess.” When she reached the front door, she tapped against it with her foot.

  After several long moments, the door crept open a crack. A bloated bleary-eyed, sallow face peered out.

  The stench contained within the house belched out through the crack and Rhonda gasped, taking a sharp step back. In a swift offer without ceremony, she thrust the plastic bags forth. “I thought you could use this.” Her voice began to fail her as she took in the sight of the woman in the doorway. “Since…since you’ve been so sick and all.”

  Rhonda could hardly believe her eyes. How quickly the once hale woman had deteriorated! Lusterless eyes sat like black hollows above blotchy, puffed cheeks. The buttons on her blue gingham housecoat bulged, ready to pop. The air was alive with flies.

  Maggie smiled. Thick, dappled hands opened the door wide, her frame nearly blocking the view. Her four-year-old son idly tossed marbles at the baby in the walker. On the floor, amid a clutter of toys and dirty dishes, Rosy and her six-year-old sister were glued to the cartoons playing on the TV. Like fallen monuments, two bags of overflowing trash spilled onto the floor near a kitchen island stacked with empty cans and cereal boxes.

  “Oh my gracious.” Maggie’s voice wasn’t much more than a cracked whisper and she took the bags from Rhonda’s hands. The weight seemed to threaten to drop her to the floor. “How very thoughtful. Thank you so much. Please, won’t you come in?”

  Rhonda screamed inside. The mess and odor was appalling. “I…I really can’t stay.” She longed to get far away. “I do have more in the car, if…you can send Rosy out for it.”

  Once back in the sanctuary of her own home, Rhonda worked her way to the bottom of her second daiquiri while pacing the patio alongside the backyard pool. How sick was that woman? It was hard to recall how long it had been since she’d last seen her. Was it only two weeks ago? Yes. Definitely two weeks ago, at the post office. The woman had to have packed on 50 pounds since then. She certainly didn’t look healthy and probably needed to be in the hospital. Did she even have insurance?

  She took another drink. “She can’t take care of herself, let alone take care of those kids.”

  Rhonda finished off the daiquiri, plopped into the chaise lounge, a
nd allowed the afternoon sunshine to drive away the chill she felt inside.

  “It’s not your problem.” Paul shuffled through the daily mail that evening after she’d recounted her experience. “But if it’ll make you feel better, call Child Protection Services. They’ll take care of it.”

  In the morning, Rhonda made the call.

  * * * *

  The children must be hungry. Maggie’s body refused to budge from the bed. Her bones pleaded for rest, unwilling muscles dead tired. The children were up—she could hear them playing in the front room. It wasn’t right to leave them unattended while she slept. They needed her.

  Again, she tried to will herself to rise to face another day.

  * * * *

  “It’s pretty bad, Mr. Yates.” Rhonda met the CPS agent at the gateway to Maggie’s yard. “The house reeks to high heaven, so breathe deep while you can.”

  “You do not need to accompany me, Mrs. Hawthorne. Your anonymity will be protected.”

  “It’s all right. She’s sure to know who called.” Rhonda followed him into the yard. “And I don’t really care. But something needs to be done.”

  Yates was firm. “Please, stay back. You’ve done your part.”

  Rhonda snorted in disbelief, but held her place near the gateway as Mr. Yates progressed through the cluttered yard. Three sharp, staccato raps upon the door brought a grimy-faced girl in dirty pajamas to answer.

  “Good morning.” Yates tried not to reel back from the malodorous assault. “Is your mother at home?”

  Rosy looked him over before gazing beyond to the gate. She smiled and waved. “Hi Mrs. Hawthorne.” As if that were her cue, Rhonda began to stride forth.

  Mr. Yates spoke again. “Please, I need to speak with your mother. May I come inside?”

  Rosy kept the door partially closed and glared at him. “She’s still sleeping and I’m not supposed to let strangers in.”

  Deciding to use Mrs. Hawthorne to his advantage, Yates knelt to look Rosy level in the eye. “But Mrs. Hawthorne isn’t a stranger now, is she?”